The Prose Boys Club stepped forward as one, snapping their fingers. The disco ball glinted off their greased hair and shiny black jackets.
The girls twittered in the corner, waving their dayglow nails and their flared bell bottoms waving in the fog machine breeze. They batted exaggerated eyelashes at the boys.
The Prose Boys' leader, the K-man Kevichella in a tight shirt, sucked in a breath:
The roar, rattle of a chainsaw. Metal teeth ripped through the floor.
Rose and Anastasia clutched together, "AAAACK!"
The blade swung round in a circle in the middle of the dance floor, taking a chunk of flashing floorboards.
"Oh," Joe spluttered. He hung in the air for a moment above the black maw. "Crap." And fell.
Something crunched below. Someone moaned.
Sly shot to the new hole in his establishment. "That's going to up my deductible," he muttered.
The Sly O'Shea below, somewhat flattened by the dwarf projectile, moaned again. His eyes rolled in his head. "I'm baaaack"