In a visual Solo Cup symphony, Ron and Shaggy drink beer with the Goon Squad and giggle that they're riding the bench behind Steve and Eric. "Want a piece of me?" snickers Greg. "Bring it on, right here!" sputters Ron. "Look out!" Cut to a few pints later. They've brought out the boom box and commenced breakdancing, standing in a circle while Shaggy cuts loose with a slick arsenal of moves. He's totally footloose. His Sunday shoes are swinging from a chandelier across town. Kyle has fashioned a turban from his jacket. Greg sways from side to side and swings his arms like an ape. A drunk, dancing ape. The best kind. Rachel and Larice watch, subdued but smiling. "I can't, I don't want to go, I can't go," protests Ron when it's his turn to bring the jiggy. Then, he catches the fever. "Oh, oh, what? What's happened?" Ron giggles, slowly starting to do the robot. "I'm a little nervous! I'm a little scared! What is this?" I'm laughing out loud by now. I'm a sucker for dance madness. I'd like a season ticket for this soul train. Larice notices that Rachel can't shake the blues, and quietly assures her that Lizzie will calm down and forgive her eventually. "My Nana didn't talk to her sister for sixty-two years," she says. "They're the best of friends now. They own a jam company." Larice feels a bit derivative to me. I'm scared she'll become a font of wacky stories from her youth in St. Olaf.
Greg lies on his back and lets the gang help fold him into an embryonic pose. They then spin him like a top. "Woohoo! Kitten play! That's cool!" someone shouts, if the captioners are to be trusted. I swear, the captioners are just drunk and transcribing some of the stuff they're slurring to each other.
In the basement, Steven swings gamely at the air, psyching himself up for The Fight that HBO Forgot. He says that Hal always claimed his son had the build of a fighter, but that Steven's always been held back by his basic fear of getting hit in the face. "Fear is my only obstacle," he announces. Heath promptly clocks him in the face. "How was that?" he asks a staggering and whining Steven. Shaking off the agony, Steven lies, "Not as bad as I thought." Heath is pleased. "If you can handle that, you can handle a fight," which Heath defines as perhaps twenty more blows just like that one. "Maybe I could fight," Steven gasps, guzzling the Kool-Aid like it's crack juice. Heath winds up and decks him again, followed by two low blows to the body. "AAAAAH," Steven tells him. The practice session devolves into a catfight. Dropping his hands from his face, Steven throws up his fists and swings a few times, landing one wee jab on Heath's chest. "Does Lizzie slap you like that?" taunts Heath. "Show me what'cha got!" Steven answers with a blow to Heath's ear. "I can't hear!" yelps Heath, grabbing his head. "You busted my eardrum! It's bleeding!" Contrite, Steven inches toward Heath to apologize, and gets a kick for his trouble. "Gotta watch out for the fake, Steven," Heath sneers, vampiric in his enthusiasm for geek blood. "Men fake, too!" Ha. Steven charges at him, backing both of them up against a huge pile of boxes. Heath delivers four stellar punches, to which Steve responds by throwing a deadly cardboard box at his rival. They end up hugging, punching each others' backs in a wild attempt to dislodge some kidneys.