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“You know, Edgeworth, I think you’re really loosening up after this long and profitable rekindling of our mutual friendship,” Phoenix Wright mentioned one day. He had hiked over to the DA’s Office after badgering the detectives for some information about his latest client and popped in to see his childhood-friend-turned-professional-adversary-turned-adult-friend-with-whom-he-maintained-both-an-easy-camaraderie-and-cordial-rivalry.
Edgeworth scoffed. “Loosen up? Wright, you barely understand the meaning of the phrase.” He added some papers to a file and stuffed it in a desk drawer. “Just because I maintain a certain level of professionalism in the workplace at all times doesn’t mean I don’t know how to ‘loosen up.’”
“Whatever, Edgeworth,” Wright said, lounging on the fuchsia sofa. To be fair, a prosecutor employed by the state did have more stringent professional guidelines to follow than a fly-by-night defense attorney who got most of his clients through the Kurain Channeling Grape Vine (extra effective because it also included dead people!). “Loosening up doesn’t mean buying smuggled tea leaves or watching pirated Steel Samurai DVDs in your pajamas. I just mean normal human things, like getting hammered and chasing wannabe actress tail.”
Edgeworth fixed him with an icy stare. “You know perfectly well I’m not interested in wannabe actresses.”
“Fine then, Instagram powerlifters. Whatever! My point is, this town needs to be painted red and I think it would be healthy for you to come out with me.”
“Wright…” Edgeworth sighed. “I know you have this mental picture of me as a prosecuting robot. But may I remind you, I spent my young adulthood growing up in Germany. Did it never occur to you that I got all the partying out of my system then?”
Wright sat up straight. It had not in fact occurred to him that Edgeworth had let loose while a teenager in Germany. He actually wasn’t sure of what exactly that could have entailed, seeing as his understanding of Germany came mainly from Rammstein songs and porn. “Really?”
“Really.” He wanted to leave it at that, but looking at the papers strewn across his desk, he realized… a lot of it was bullshit. All he had to do was step foot in the district again and he got swamped with tedious, trivial bullshit. “So I’m sure you would never be able to keep up with me, Wright.”
“Might I remind the prosecution that while he may have spent his teenage years drinking beers in Germany, the defense spent 3 years of college as an art major?” Wright was sure he had the upper hand. Even the most sedate parties involved misdemeanor arson.
“I don’t doubt you had an ill-spent college career, if your legal knowledge is any proof.” He ignored Wright’s scowl. “I’m free this Saturday night. I agree, it would be beneficial to blow off some steam. I can meet you at Deliberations… that is, unless you’re too much of a kleiner Feigling.”
“A what the what now?”
Edgeworth smirked. “You’ll see.”
Deliberations was a bar within walking distance of the courthouse. On a weekday, the clientele was almost entirely lawyers, cops, and courthouse workers, but on the weekends, they usually brought in some hip live music and ‘mixologists’ rather than plain old bartenders to attract a more diverse crowd.
Edgeworth was already sipping a drink when Wright arrived. (The cup was copper, so probably a Moscow Mule, or one of its unbearably cool variations.) He was wearing tan corduroys and a fuchsia short-sleeved button down shirt with brogues and no socks, which made him fit in improbably well. Phoenix was just wearing a t-shirt and jeans with beat-up flip-flops, which looked fine but meant he probably wouldn’t be mistaken for an out-of-work creative type of the sort that littered LA. “I’m glad you could make it.”
“And miss Miles Edgeworth’s clinic in binge drinking? Wouldn’t miss it for the world.” He sat down at the bar next to Edgeworth and tried to flag down someone who could pour him a beer.
“I’ve got the first round, Wright. What’s your poison?”
If Edgeworth was drinking a Moscow Mule, he couldn’t get something lighter. Go hard or go home, that was the motto for tonight (also the motto for the other courthouse bar, The Hung Jury, but it wasn’t really Wright’s scene). “Dark and Stormy for now, please.”
Somehow the bartender appeared almost instantaneously when Edgeworth signaled -- he had probably already left a tip. “Dark and Stormy for this gentleman, and two Kleiner Feiglings.”
“Hold it!” Phoenix yelled. “There’s that German again. Just what the hell is a clinging fig leaf?”
“You’ll see in a moment, Wright,” Edgeworth said inscrutably. “Suffice to say I intend to kick this night off with a bang.”
It was only a few minutes before the drinks got there: a Dark and Stormy, and two mini bottles of liquor with lavender caps and big cartoon eyes on the label. Phoenix leapt on the Dark and Stormy immediately (“mmm! More gingery than Ron DeLite!”), but left the minis for Edgeworth to deal with. That had to be a mistake, like Gumshoe grabbing the wrong autopsy report, and someone would have to get taken to task for it.
He was wrong. Instead, Edgeworth picked up one bottle and held out the other for Phoenix. He gulped his sip of Dark and Stormy and took the little bottle.
“These are Kleiner Feigling. It means ‘little coward,’ but it’s a pun on – never mind,” Edgeworth said. “It’s one of the German traditions I miss in this country.”
“What is it?” Phoenix asked, looking at the bottle. It was the same size as any normal airplane bottle, but the label just said the liquor’s name in script, with those big cartoon eyes over it, like Scooby Doo when the power went out.
“It’s a fig vodka.”
“So it’s kind of sweet?”
Edgeworth shrugged. “I haven’t the faintest idea how it tastes. That’s not really the point.”
Okay, now things were getting interesting. Not knowing what the drink tasted like? That sounded dangerously close to… a shot.
“There’s a ritual around it,” Edgeworth continued. “First, tap the bottle on the bar. Then take the cap off, put it on your nose, clench the bottle between your teeth, and knock it back.”
Phoenix gaped. Who was this man, and what had he done to the prosecutor? “Edgeworth, there were like six too many steps in that. Is it not just a shot?”
“Look Wright, if you want this to be a good night, you’ve got to start it out right. Like a trial.”
“Edgeworth, you start all your trials by calling Gumshoe to the witness stand.”
A scowl flashed briefly across his face. “That’s why I’m willing to binge drink. Look, just follow my lead.”
Edgeworth picked up the mini, turned it upside down, and started tapping it rapidly against the bar until it started to bubble. Phoenix followed suit. He then unscrewed the cap, stuck it against his nose, put the bottle neck between his teeth… and flung his head back.
So Phoenix really had not misheard him.
The flavored vodka burned a little going down, but Edgeworth had been right -- he couldn’t really tell what it tasted like. And now Edgeworth was sitting there with the light purple cap stuck to his nose. It really made him look ten -- well, maybe seven -- years younger.
The cap had fallen off Wright’s nose when he leaned forward to drop the bottle, which it turns out was a major party foul. “You have to buy the next round,” Edgeworth said smugly, cap still on his nose.
“I was planning to anyway…” Phoenix said. He took a sip of his drink first. Edgeworth’s opening gambit had surprised him. It had been nearly 5 years since his last balls to the wall art major party, before he buckled down and took law studies relatively seriously. But then, it had to have been even longer since Edgeworth was a teen roaming the German bar scene in search of ways to both blow off steam and piss off Manfred von Karma. Maybe Phoenix really had underestimated Edgeworth’s ability to party.
Anyway. If Edgeworth was going to start with a weird shot, so was he. “Can you give this guy a blowjob?” Phoenix yelled (ostensibly at the bartender, but also just to be obnoxious).
“Buddy, that’s your job!” someone in the crowd yelled back. Phoenix was gratified that Edgeworth was as disgusted by the comment as he had been. He was really hoping he wasn’t Edgeworth’s type.
“Really, Wright? Couldn’t come up with anything more creative than that?” The sarcasm would probably have been a lot more withering if the purple cap weren’t still stuck to his nose. Maybe, Phoenix thought, Edgeworth liked those shots because his nose was the perfect shape for them.
But any speculation would have to be curtailed, because the bartender brought over two shots topped with whipped cream and slid them in front of the two attorneys. “I trust this needs no introduction,” Wright said, eyeing the shots.
“Please, Wright.” Edgeworth smirked. “I would wager I know a lot more about blowjobs than you.”
Phoenix just about choked. Who knew all it took was a cocktail and a few goofy-ass shots to make Edgeworth loosen up? “Fine. On three, then.”
They pulled the shots closer and Phoenix counted, “one… two… three!” Both men ducked down and grabbed the shot glasses between their teeth, then tilted their head backs. Phoenix lost the grip on it and grabbed it with his hand before it could spill everywhere; true to his word, Edgeworth managed to down the shot and deposit the glass neatly on the bar, although in the process, the Kleiner Feigling cap was dislodged and replaced with a dollop of whipped cream. Phoenix didn’t mention it.
Two shots in ten minutes would have been nothing for 19 year-old Phoenix (and probably even less for 16 year-old Miles), but in the haze of relative old age both men knew that another one would be pushing things. It was only 8, after all. In about 40 minutes they would be happily tipsy, but another shot would probably upset the delicate balance of drunkenness. It wouldn’t do get thrown out of a bar by 9. That would just be embarrassing.
Edgeworth was saying something as Wright was having these musings, but the band had started their set and the bar was getting a little more crowded. Phoenix could barely make out a word he said. But it looked like Edgeworth’s cup was empty, so he had a guess.
“You wanna get out of here?” he yelled.
Edgeworth nodded. Wright drained the last of his drink as Miles motioned for the bartender and they settled their tabs. For two drinks and four shots, it was more expensive than Wright was expecting. He felt suddenly old even as he bitched about the price. 19 year-old Phoenix barely balanced his checkbook…. But then again, 19 year-old Phoenix also drank vodka from plastic bottles. (27 year-old Phoenix shuddered to think about it.)
“Wright, this is the bar by the courthouse,” Edgeworth said. “They expect us to have,” he smirked and held up his fingers in scare quotes, “‘Lawyer Money.’”
“Yeah well…” was the brilliant rebuttal from the defense. “Let’s get out of lawyer land, then.”
“I wouldn’t think that’s so difficult for you. You hardly spend any time there as it is.”
Phoenix scowled and brought Uber up on his phone. “I also don’t want to run into any… anyone, really.”
“I completely understand. Wouldn’t want to damage your reputation.” Edgeworth rolled his eyes.
Miles didn’t even question where the car was headed, seemingly content to leave the relatively classier bars for Phoenix’s schoolboy haunts and let his buddy make conversation with the driver. They ended up in front of a windowless Irish bar called, in a fit of almost Shakespearean creativity, Murphy’s.
“You got the cab, Wright. I’ll get the first round.”
“Fine by me,” Phoenix agreed. “I’ll be in the back.”
The back was where the pool tables were. It had been a pretty long time since he had last shot a game of pool, but surely it was one of those things you didn’t forget. And it was definitely one of those things you got better at the more you drank. He fed some quarters into the table and started chalking up his cue. Actually, he would need at least another shot to reach peak skill. (He was pretty sure he had never actually played pool while sober.) Hopefully Miles would be back with an eiffel tower made of J ägerbombs .
What Miles actually returned with was a pitcher and two icy glasses, which might have been even more surprising. “I see I gauged the atmosphere correctly,” he said, pouring first Wright then himself a glass. “I thought this wouldn’t be the right place to get a glass of wine.”
“At an Irish bar? Wouldn’t you go for a whiskey instead?”
“Whiskey is not for loosening up, Wright. Whiskey is to be savored and enjoyed.”
Good to see the real Miles Edgeworth was still in there somewhere. Phoenix took a sip of his beer to disguise his smirk, then almost spit it out in surprise. He wasn’t sure what he was expecting, but it definitely wasn’t…. “Is this Bud Light?”
“Miller Lite, actually. I wouldn’t want you to feel out of place here.” Edgeworth sipped his own beer. “I can’t say I’ve missed this. Germany at least has excellent macrobreweries.”
“Yeah, I’ve always said American beer was like making love in a canoe.”
Edgeworth raised an inquisitive eyebrow.
“It’s fucking close to water.”
Edgeworth spat out his mouthful of beer in a bark of surprised laughter. “Not bad, Wright. Are you ready to lag for break?”
It shouldn’t have surprised him that Edgeworth was knowledgeable about pool, just like he was knowledgeable about every other thing in life, including, apparently, getting trashed. Phoenix was surprised he managed to eke out a win in their first game, which neatly coincided with emptying the first pitcher.
“Why don’t you take some practice shots while I get the next round?” Phoenix said as smugly as he could. It was actually a front, since he only won by two balls and a botched hit by Edgeworth. But since his opponent had been so kind as to show him a German party drinking tradition, he thought it would only be polite to show him what had been the linchpin of all good art department parties (besides the drugs).
The bartender looked a little askance at Phoenix when he ordered -- it was barely past 9, but maybe adults didn’t buy that much J ägermeister. He couldn’t have been slurring yet.
Edgeworth really had racked a practice round, which didn’t bode well for Wright’s chances in the next game. But he planned to even the odds with…
“ J ägerbombs!” Phoenix said triumphantly. He had gotten another pitcher to go with them, but at the rate they were going, they might be practically sober by the time they got home, and that was not in the spirit of the evening.
“Hunter bombs? What do you hunt with bombs, terrorists?”
Phoenix rolled his eyes. “I can’t believe you’ve done that weird nose shot, and a Blowjob, but you’ve never done J ägerbombs.” He poured two shots of J äger into shot glasses and two Red Bulls into highball glasses. “Start chugging!”
It had been about 5 years since he had last done a J ägerbomb, and he hadn’t remembered how… awful they tasted. Phoenix supposed he had usually been trashed or high when he did them, so he had never noticed how disgusting and sweet Red Bull was, or how disgusting and sweet J ägermeister also was.
In what was simply the next in a series of surprises, Edgeworth didn’t even grimace when he chugged the drink. “You’re right--”
“I know.”
Edgeworth rolled his eyes. “I mean, I have done this before. Only in German, they’re called--”
“I don’t give a fuck, Miles. Lag for break.”
Maybe he was powered by saltiness, or simply just J äger bombs, but Miles took the next game. By the end they had killed some of the pitcher, and all the Red Bull, but there was still half a bottle of J äger left, and Phoenix began to form a plan in his head.
“All right,” he said, his tongue feeling somehow heavier in his mouth. “I gotta get my money’s worth out of this bottle.”
“Of course.”
“And we’re tied 1 to 1.”
“Also true.”
“So I’m proposing,” his mouth might have felt odd but his head had never felt so clear! It was better than the last time he binged Adderall to crank out a court brief! “I’m saying that, every time we pocket a ball… we take a shot.”
“Both of us?”
“Nah, just whoever made the pocket. It’ll even the odds. So you can… turnabout!” Wright was pretty proud he had come up with such a complex set of rules and persuasive argument under the circumstances. He knew, intellectually, that alcohol entered the bloodstream at a consistent rate, and therefore he might still be getting drunk from the earlier drinks. But his intellectual brain did not have a whole lot of truck at the moment, and his heart -- the most important part of a defense attorney, after all -- was saying, “keep drinking.” And also, his wallet was saying “get your money’s worth.”
For Edgeworth’s part, he was 90% motivated by pride. That Wright thought he could keep up with a German-raised prosecutor in recreational drinking was laughable, and he had to be shown his place. (The last 10% was a feeling of relief that he could justify to himself getting well and truly trashed for the first time in years.)
“Agreed.”
The break went okay, though Phoenix didn’t sink any balls. Then Miles scratched his first shot, which started an argument about whether or not he should drink, since it was detrimental to his play in the first place. Then Phoenix sank one of Miles’ balls and the same argument ensued. Then they traded shots (in all senses) for a few turns. Then Miles sank the eight ball and ended the whole thing prematurely.
“I assure you, Wright, I am not accustomed to ending things prematurely.” He rolled his eyes when Phoenix started giggling and then hiccuping. “But I suppose that does warrant a penalty shot.”
In the spirit of camaraderie, Phoenix also drank the shot. Somehow, magically, the bottle of J äger had finally disappeared. What was left were questions. And also most of a pitcher of Bud Light.
“So no premature endings for you, huh, Edgeworth?”
The prosecutor glared at him. “Is that innuendo?”
“Never! Just wondering when there was last someone special in your life. Or as Pearl would have it, your Special Someone.”
“I don’t have the luxury of that much free time compared to you,” Edgeworth said. “Nor do I continually have… Special Someones thrown in my lap by the judicial system.”
Phoenix ignored the insinuations about his personal life and concentrated on needling Miles instead. “I guess LA is the place to pick up hot yet desperate--”
“Wright. Shut up.”
“Pretty wannabe actors, one successful audition away from superstardom…”
“I assure you, naive pretty-boys are not my type.”
“Fine, cynical baristas working on their screenplay.”
“I suppose I could make like you and pick up fools from a religious order.”
Phoenix chucked one of the shot glasses at him. It was meant to be playful, but unfortunately he put a little too much force behind it. The crunch of broken glass was followed almost immediately by a 6’5” beefcake saying, “I think you’ve had enough to drink, buddy.”
He barely had time to argue before he was sitting on the sidewalk outside the bar. Miles came out a few seconds later, but at least it was under his own power. “I haven’t been thrown out of a bar in 10 years, Wright.”
“It’s only been 6 for me, Edgeworth.”
“Correction: it’s only been 30 seconds for you.” He held out a hand to pull Phoenix up from the ground. “And it’s not even midnight. I suppose I underestimated you.”
“Still too early to hit the 7-11 for taquitos and Miller High Life, huh?”
Edgeworth shuddered. “You mean d öner kebab and Beck’s.”
“What I really mean is scoring weed from a busboy.”
“I know you had a more colorful university career than I did, and it shows in court.” Phoenix rolled his eyes. “When you were ‘scoring weed’ and getting high after drinking, I was taking caffeine tabs so I would be sober for class.”
“Classic nerd all-nighter,” Phoenix said. “I’m surprised you could pull something like that with von Karma around.”
“I had to blow off steam somehow, Wright, and binge drinking is far more acceptable in Germany than a nervous breakdown.”
“That’s why you had to put it off until you got back to LA?” Even as the words left his mouth Phoenix regretted them. “I’m sorry, god, I’m drunk, that was totally out of--”
He was interrupted by Edgeworth shoving him into a planter. Phoenix went ass over teakettle into the dirt, but he considered it his penance for saying something shitty.
“I’m getting an Uber,” Miles said.
“Right, good call, better get back home before I say something else--”
“To the next bar, Wright. It’s not even 12, you can’t think the night is over yet?”
This place, somehow, was Edgeworth’s choice. It had all the low lighting, wall graffiti, and sticky floors of a true dive bar, and it was definitely in a part of town Wright had never been to before. At least, he thought he hadn’t. It had been tough to follow the Uber ride, but Edgeworth had never struck him as the beachy kind of guy, and this seemed right up on the water. “Bodhi’s,” the sign proclaimed in a sort of faded yellow neon, with a surfboard next to the letters. The bouncer gave them both Looks, but waved them in. They couldn’t have been staggering that badly.
Inside it wasn’t that crowded for midnight, but that was to be expected for the dead of winter. Even though it didn’t usually drop below 50 in LA, that was enough to create an off-season at a beach bar.
“Why do you even know about this place?” Phoenix asked. “It doesn’t seem like, like…. Like your scene.”
“Why don’t you guess, Wright? Why don’t you take… take a shot in the dark?”
“Uh. I don’t know. The, the… ambidex? No. Ambrose. Ambeyonce.” Phoenix scratched his nose thoughtfully. “Good beers? Good...wines. No. The artwork. The disco fries. The--”
“Surfers, Wright! I like the surfers!” Miles’ face practically glowed red with the admission, and probably also the drinks. “You insisted on giving me an inquisition about my types, well… there it is.”
“Miles… we’re not in a gay bar, are we?”
“Please, Phoenix, I wouldn’t be so rude. To you or someone, uh…”
“Trying to get laid.”
Edgeworth looked affronted, as though that wasn’t the reason he hit Bodhi’s every weekend during the summer. “Don’t be crass.”
“Right, sorry. Drink’s on me, then.”
Phoenix was willing to admit to himself at this point that he was too drunk to get creative, but not too drunk to not raise the stakes. “4 vodka shots, please. Well.” He slapped a twenty on the bar and tried real hard to focus his eyes. Miles squeezed in next to him.
“Are you trying to kill us, Wright?”
“Night’s not over at,” he squinted at his watch, of which there seemed to be three or four, “this time that it is now. It would be a shame if--”
Edgeworth slammed back the first shot. “We were to remember it? I agree.”
It was now 2, and both men seemed had finally hit the point where they were unlikely to remember the night. It really spoke to the laid back atmosphere that the bartender hadn’t cut them off yet, though perhaps it was because he recognized Edgeworth as a VIP customer in the summer. But most likely it was because while the men were hammered, they weren’t disruptive. Just clumsy.
“Hey buddy, the fuck you think you’re doing?”
Edgeworth blinked owlishly. Someone seemed to be talking to him, but he couldn’t quite focus on them. “The fuck do you think I think I’m doing?”
“I fucking think you’re a little too fucking close to my girlfriend!”
He could hear Wright laugh from what seemed like the other side of the bar. Maybe he was disoriented because Mr. The-Fuck-Do-You-Think-You’re-Doing had grabbed him by the collar in an attempt to drag him away from the girlfriend in question. “I do not agree,” was all Edgeworth could manage to say, under the circumstances.
“I don’t give a fuck!” the other man yelled, shaking him slightly. He didn’t seem to notice the bouncers closing in on them, although he did hear Wright say something in the background. (It was: “your turn now!”)
It almost felt like an out of body experience, because he wasn’t exactly sure how he got outside -- certainly didn’t remember walking -- and there seemed to be a burly man screaming obscenities at him.
And he could hear Phoenix Wright yelling or laughing or choking or something, which might have been the most familiar noise of all. So who could be surprised when his instincts kicked in?
“Objection!” Edgeworth shouted, and he flung his hand out with all the coordination of a very, very drunk person.
Unfortunately, it wasn’t the Judge, or a detective, or a defense attorney, any of whom might have understood the situation. It was an angry, inebriated, and very large man. “Object to this, motherfucker!” he yelled, and punched Edgeworth in the face.
“What the fuck is going on out here?” someone yelled. “I’m calling the cops!”
The punching man and his small girlfriend fled, as did most of the rubberneckers outside. But the ground was very comfortable compared to being punched, and Wright had to sit down from laughing so hard. Besides, it was probably just a bluff to get the crowd to disperse. He still had a few minutes to enjoy the pavement.
Edgeworth believed that right up until the black and white pulled up. “All right pal, what the hell is going on here? Get off the ground!” He felt a large, strong hand grab his arm and haul him to his feet. “M-Mister Edgeworth?”
Edgeworth didn’t really have a good response, as it took all of his concentration to remain on his feet. He probably would have fallen back down if Gumshoe hadn’t kept a vice grip on his bicep. “You’re bleeding, sir! What the hell happened?”
Not getting a response, he turned to the other witness on the scene. “Don’t tell me the laughing hyena over here is…” Gumshoe shook his head. “Wright? Why the hell is Mister Edgeworth lying outside one of the shittiest bars around in a puddle of his own blood, pal?”
Phoenix tried to catch his breath long enough to answer. “He… oh my god… This guy…. He thought--” he started laughing again, “--he thought Miles was hitting…. Hitting on…. Oh fuck, I’m gonna throw up--”
And he did, copiously, and all over Edgeworth’s shoes.
“Hey, Dick!” the other cop yelled from inside the car. “You need help out there?”
“Nah, it’s fine, pal. I know these clowns,” Gumshoe yelled back.
“What, they in the drunk tank every weekend?”
Phoenix started giggling again, even as he was spitting puke out of his mouth. Gumshoe sighed. “Something like that…” The cop pulled his head back into the squad car.
“You’re really lucky it’s me, pal. And even luckier that you pulled this stunt way out in county territory. You know if you’d been six blocks east, it woulda been a city car picking you up, and one hell of a walk of shame tomorrow morning.”
“What’s...tomorrow morning?”
“Look pal, I can’t just let you go like this. You’re gonna be spending the next coupla hours in the drunk tank. Maybe get a public intox.”
“Miles too?”
Gumshoe looked at the prosecutor, who seemed to have fallen asleep standing up, propped on Gumshoe’s arm. “Yeah, him too.” He shook him gently. “Hey, wake up, sir!”
“Yes, detective?” Edgeworth answered automatically. He didn’t open his eyes.
“You can’t fall asleep after a hit in the head, sir! You gotta stay awake!”
“Of course, detective. I know that.” He tried to glare at Gumshoe, but he still couldn’t quite focus his eyes. “Is this the crime scene?”
“You could say that. I’m trying to solve the mystery of the shit-faced attorneys myself.” With that, he marched Edgeworth to the squad car, opened the door, and shoved him into the backseat.
“Is this blood on my shoes?” Wright heard him yell. “Why didn’t you secure the scene!”
“I’m gonna let you explain that one, pal,” Gumshoe said, grabbing Wright’s shoulder and pulling him to his feet. “In you go.”
It had been nearly ten years since Miles Edgeworth had been this hungover. His eyes felt like they were full of sand, every joint in his body ached from dehydration, his head pounded like the Judge’s gavel was hammering away in there, and every smell seemed to be not just stronger, but also fouler than normal. He slowly sat upright and tried to will away the vomit summoned by the motion.
It was a small consolation to see that Phoenix Wright was in a similar predicament, though he was taking small sips from a paper cup, which looked like it took superhuman levels of motivation.
“Wright?” he croaked. “I choose death.”
Before Wright could say anything, a voice screeched into his brain, like Satan himself was punishing them. It was equal parts loud, shrill, and high-spirited, which was like a cocktail (oh god… don’t think about cocktails…) of misery perfectly designed to kill him.
“Nick? Edgey?! I never thought it was you guys I’d be bailing out here!”
If there was a merciful God, Edgeworth would have been struck down that instant. But there wasn’t, and instead he had to contend with Larry Butz.