For a few blissfully productive days, the band stayed relatively sober and shockingly focused. Tracks were laid down. Harmonies were polished. Christine nailed a solo that gave everyone chills. Stevie, seated with a mug of chamomile and a notebook full of lyrics, joked that this might be their most "mature" album yet.
Then Friday came.
And with it... Mick.
He strolled into the kitchen like a man with a plan and a very selective memory. "You know what this night needs?" he declared, holding up a bottle of merlot with both hands like it was the Holy Grail. "Wine. Because the last time it went so well."
"Define 'well,'" Stevie muttered without looking up.
"We finished half a track and Sharon tried to harmonize with a fern," Christine replied.
"Still one of my proudest moments," Sharon said, snatching a glass.
One by one, the wine made its rounds. Stevie and Lori stuck to their tea, wary. But Sharon, Christine, Lindsey, Mick, and John? Down the rabbit hole they went.
Before long, the group stumbled out into the moonlit backyard, mid-argument about something no one would remember the next morning.
Mick and John were standing near some thick bushes, voices raised.
"I'm telling you, a tomato is a fruit!" Mick insisted, slurring slightly.
"It is not! It grows underground!" John argued, face flushed.
"That's a potato, you muppet!" Lindsey interjected.
"You stay out of this, Buckingham!" John barked, taking a step forward.
Lindsey stepped between them, palms up. "We are not throwing punches over produce!"
"Outta my way!"
"No."
"Yes."
"No."
"No."
"YES."
Lindsey shoved John lightly, more annoyed than anything. But John stumbled back...
...right into Sharon.
Who was sipping wine and humming Fleetwood Mac to herself.
She toppled backwards with a shriek straight into the poison ivy bush. Flump.
Christine turned to help—but in her buzzed coordination, ended up tripping over her own feet and crashing into the bush as well.
There was a long beat of silence.
Then—
"OH NO."
"My back! MY BACK IS ON FIRE!" Sharon screamed, writhing on the grass.
Christine stood up like she'd been electrocuted. "Why does it itch!? WHY IS IT MY FOOT?! I FELL ON MY SHOULDER, WHY IS IT MY FOOT?!"
On the porch, Stevie didn't even blink. "I think we've reached peak stupid," she murmured.
"Give it another hour," Lori replied, sipping her tea.
The victims stumbled toward them, blotchy and panicked.
"Somebody DO SOMETHING!" Sharon wailed, flapping her arms like she was trying to take flight.
Lori grabbed her keys. "I'll get the calamine. Don't lick anything."
Stevie herded Christine and Sharon inside and promptly shoved them into Christine's room. "Nobody leaves. You're under medical house arrest."
Inside the room... all hell broke loose.
