Cut to Joey's room. She thanks him for walking her home. "No thanks necessary," Dawson says. "That's what I do." Bite me, Nostril Boy. Where were you in the Walking Joey Home department the night she got her ass mugged? Oh, that's right. You were directing your vanity project across town! Blah blah blah blah, Joey invites Dawson to crash for the night. Brace yourselves, my children. Because we all know what's coming. And it's not going to be pretty. In fact, it may be the most horrible thing any of us has ever seen in our young lives. I suggest those of you with delicate constitutions look away. Okay. Deep breath. I'm going in.
Okay. Got my booze. Got my blindfold. Got some knitting needles to jab into my eyeballs. 911 is cued up on speed dial. I've taken out my collection of early Ralph Fiennes photos (circa Quiz Show, back when he was hot and not playing serial killers all the time) in case I have to look at something that's not hideous. I have a bucket of bleach, a bucket of lye, and six gang members on call in case I need someone to beat me into unconsciousness. I think I'm ready. Joey goes into the bathroom to prepare, and finally emerges to find Dawson asleep on Audrey's bed. Okay, cut! Cut! Cut now, while we can all still get out alive! Joey looks disappointed as she climbs into her own bed. Didn't you hear me? Cut, cut! For the love of God, please cut! Cut now! Cut nooooooooooooow! But it's too late. Dawson wakes up. We're all doomed. "Joey, are you awake?" Dawson asks. She is, but tells him to go ahead and get some sleep. Yes! Yes! Listen to her, Dawson! Sleep! Sleeeeep. You're getting very sleepy. Verrrrrry sleeeeeppppy.