Hey, hi, hello!

St. Patrick's Day. Bianca, Cameron, and Nadia's favorite day of the year. Each year since they had moved to Boston, the trio had visited McGinty's pub, a favorite spot for everyone.

This year, they were one short.

As their tradition as roommates required, the two sat in a corner of the pub, three bottles of Jose Cuervo tequila along the wall and a line of six shot glasses in front of each. It was a drinking game, one that progressed with each passing year. Each girl knew her threshold of shots – Bianca was the record holder, with twelve lines of shots before she so much as slurred her words. Ninety-six shot glasses full of tequila.

Nadia was trying to reach this record. Bianca was trying to outmatch herself.

"Hey, Fuck-ass, get me a beer!"

The shouted words reached the best friends, who laughed. That was the game. Whenever Doc or someone referring to Doc said Doc's favorite two words – "Fuck! Ass!" – they had to do a line of shots. This was lucky number seven – Doc was doing well this year.

"You are going down, Bee," Nadia said, pouring the golden liquid into her own eight glasses. "It's happening this year."

"I disagree, Dee," Bianca replied, pouring her line. "It's going to go the same way it always does."

"Cami almost beat you last year. Maybe it's my turn."

"Hey, girls, how you doin'?"

The Italian Intrusion, David Della Rocco, leaned on the edge of their table, dark brown eyes flicking between the two slender, young girls. He was always wondering if there was anything they wanted or needed. They never told him, even if there was something."

"We're doing fine," Nadia told him. "The game continues."

"Ohh, it is so on," Bianca said, picking up the first glass and tipping her head back.

The night wore on, until only the most faithful remained in the bar, most cluttered around the counter. Connor and Murphy sat there, on either side of the Italian Intrusion, with their boss to Murphy's right. Nadia and Bianca had not moved.

"I bet he'll say it soon," Bianca said, tapping the knuckle of her right index finger on the tabletop. "It's been half a fucking hour."

"Your guess is as good as mine."

"Listen, listen, boys!" Doc shouted at the men seated around him. "I've got some very bad news." No one reacted to that statement well. Ever. "I'm gonna have to close down th-th-the bar." Shouts and groans erupted over the group. "The Russians are buyin' up buildin's all over town, includin' this one – Fuck! Ass! – and they're not lettin' me renew my lease."

"Luckiest number of all," Bianca said. "On a sour note, but why the hell not?"

"You go' that right," Nadia said, already slurring.

"Here's hopin'," Bianca said, picking up the first glass and knocking it back.

"Well, you know what they say – people in glass houses sink sh-sh-ships."

Oh, here it goes, finally, Bianca thought. Mix and match proverbs by Doc.

"Y'know, Doc, I gotta buy you, like, a proverb book or some shit like that. This mix and match shit's gotta go," Rocco told the old man.

"Yeah, 'a penny saved's worth two in the bush,' innit?" Connor said, sarcasm coloring his lilting accent, unmarred by the amount of alcohol he'd drunk since the night began.

"And 'don't cross the road if ya can't get outta the kitchen,'" Murphy threw in.

And Bianca downed her hundred and fourth shot of tequila of the night. She slammed the last glass down, upside-down on the table, threw her arms into the air, and shouted with joy.

"And Bee wins again," Connor said, glancing over at the girls just as three burly men in suits – one bald with a tie and thick eyebrows, another bald with pale eyebrows and thin facial hair, and one with curly hair and even more facial hair than the first – all but marched into the bar.

The bald one with thick eyebrows spoke, his Russian accent thick. "I am Ivan Checkov, and you will be closing – now."

"Checkov?" Murphy said, definitely drunk. "Well! This here's McCoy!" He threw an arm around Rocco. "We find a Spock, we got us an away team."

Nadia and Bianca shared a look as the latter stood and, silent as she could, opened the janitorial closet behind their table and extracted two mop handles. Rounded blunt on either end, they were perfect for self-defense – if such a situation arose. Both girls stayed where they were, watching the events, except as Nadia mouthed, "I didn't know Murphy was into Star Trek." Bianca shrugged in reply.

"I am in no mood for discussion. You! You stay. The rest of you – go now." The Russian waved his hands at the pub-goers. They had not seen the two girls standing in the corner, sixteen shot glasses and one quarter-emptied bottle of tequila on their table.

"Why can't you make like a tree and get the fuck outta here?!" Doc told the Russians. This was followed by a renewed round of groans at the mixed proverb their beloved barman had delivered.

"You know he's got 'til the week's end. You don't have to be hard-asses, do ya?" Connor said.

"Yeah, it's St. Paddy's Day – everyone's Irish tonight," Murphy added as Connor took a drink of his beer. "Why don't you just pull up a stool and have a drink with us?"

And Ivan smashed the beer glasses.

Oh, shit, Bianca thought.

"This is no game! If you won't go, we will make you go."

"He's fucked," Nadia said, supporting herself halfway on the broom handle.

"Listen," Connor began, "if ya want to fight, you can see yer outnumbered here. We're tryin' to be civil, so I suggest ya take our offer."

"I make the offers," Ivan said, leaning close into the Irishman's face.

"Hey, Boris," the Incredibly Intoxicated Italian began, staggering forward, "what would you do…if I told you…your pinko commie mother sucked so much dick, her face looked li –"

And Ivan punched him.

"Fuck you!" Murphy shouted, finger toward Ivan's face as he straightened, unaware that two slight women approached him silently, broom handles raised in both hands.

"Now, that wasn't too polite, was it?" Connor said, in Russian – Bianca's specialty.

"I'm afraid we can't let that one go, Vanya," Murphy added.

The two downed a shot of whiskey each, Doc looking on with a worried expression, and rushed Ivan as they had rushed the man who slaughtered Cameron, but from the front. Nadia was caught between the Russian and the floor and, being too slow to dodge, she ended up on her back, while Bianca raised her handle and started bashing at the light-facial-haired bald man's shoulders. Connor joined in, jabbing him in the face with his fists.

The small segment of the fight began to spin. Bianca often used the broom handle to smash at the Russian's back, trying to knock him down. Finally, Connor spun him into a mirror.

"That was convenient," Bianca said.

"It was," Connor said with a laugh. "Where'd ya learn to fight with that thing?"

"It's a combination of techniques – I'll explain later!"

And they dove back into the fight.

Not too much later, as the excitement of the fight died down, Bianca and Nadia said their farewells to the friends they had fought beside – all except Connor and Murphy. Living in the same building had an advantage.

They didn't have to go anywhere alone at night.

"That was so awesome," Bianca said. She still carried the handle and was currently spinning it in figure eights in front of her.

"Where'd ya learn that shit, Bee?" Connor asked.

"Well, Connor, it's a combination of six years color guard – seventh and eighth grade and all of high school – and eight and a half years of mixed martial arts training. My parents insisted on both of them. Dee, Cami, and I were the only ones at our high school who were allowed to do this" – she flipped the stick into the air – "with our flags."

"Well, yer just a regular badass, aren't ya?" Murphy said. "Why'd you two go to a hundred and four shots tonight?"

"It's the record. That's the premise of my yearly game – to outmatch my previous year's total. This year, because last year I got to ninety-six, I had to get to eight higher," Bianca said, smacking the Irishman in the shoulder with the stick.

"That's the worst drinkin' game ever!" Connor told her, earning a smack of his own with the stick.

"Let's get home. We've got a lot of shit to do," Bianca said, holding the stick behind her, over her shoulder, as she walked

Ahhhh, barfights. I've never written one before. Please, review with your opinion of my version of the original barfight. All recognizeable lines, belong to Troy Duffy and whoever the heck else is involved in the crafting of these AWESOME movies!

Much love,