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The air in Selma Bouvier’s apartment is a stagnant soup of menthol smoke and faded disappointment. July in Springfield is a humid beast, and the window unit is doing nothing but rattling. Selma, draped in a stained silk robe that has seen better decades, strikes a match with a practiced, cynical flick of her thumb. The flame illuminates the deep lines of her face before she inhales, the cherry of her Laramie Hi-Tar glowing like a warning light. With a sharp exhale that clouds the room in a grey haze, she jerks her head toward the door.
"Show's over, Stu," she rasps, her voice like gravel in a blender. "I’ve got a date with a bottle of wine and a 'MacGyver' marathon. Don't let the door hit your sequins on the way out."
Disco Stu is already in the hallway, his fingers fumbling with the oversized butterfly buttons of his polyester shirt. At sixty-five, the glitter doesn't catch the light quite like it used to, and his heart feels heavier than his rhinestone-encrusted belt. He pauses, looking back through the doorway with a gaze that is uncharacteristically stripped of its persona.
"You said it was for real this time, Selma," Stu says, his voice dropping the rhythmic cadence he usually employs for the public. "Stu thought... we were making a connection. A real 'Love to Love You Baby' kind of vibe."
Selma doesn't even look at him. She just flicks her ash onto a souvenir plate from Shelbyville. "Stu, honey, you’re a great lay, but you’re a novelty act. Get a grip."
The door clicks shut, a final, metallic punctuation mark. Stu stands in the dim light of the apartment complex, the silence of the hallway pressing in on him. He feels that familiar, dark tug at the corners of his mind—the grey fog that starts to roll in when his lithium levels dip or when the world reminds him he’s a relic. He reaches into his pocket, scrolling through his phone with a shaking hand until he finds the Uber app. He needs noise. He needs lights. He needs the distracting, useless comfort of obscure facts.
The Bloated Liver is a dive bar that smells of spilled stout and desperate ambition, tucked away in the shadow of the Bowlarama. When Stu arrives, the neon sign is flickering, casting a rhythmic red glow over the entrance. Inside, the atmosphere is electric with the low-stakes tension of Tuesday Night Trivia. Stu spots his table immediately. At fifty-seven, Fat Tony remains the picture of stoic, organized elegance, his sharp suit a stark contrast to the sticky vinyl of the booth. Beside him sits Artie Ziff, forty-seven and radiating a frenetic, sweaty energy that suggests he’s been refreshing Wikipedia pages in the car.
"Stu, you are late," Tony observes, his voice a velvet rumble. He takes a sip of mineral water; since marrying Mayor Quimby, he has made a concerted effort to maintain a certain level of civic sobriety, at least in public. "The registration ends in ten minutes. We are a man down."
Artie taps his fingers on the table, his eyes darting around the room. "Where is Terwilliger? Bob is the only one who can match my recall of 19th-century operatic scandals. Without him, we’re vulnerable. Look at the 'Nerd-vark' team over there."
Stu looks. Across the room, a rival team sits in a circle of intellectual intimidation: Kirk Van Houten looks stressed, Horatio McCallister is nursing a grog, Hans Moleman is squinting at a coaster, and Professor Frink is adjusting a pocket protector that seems to be humming.
"Where is Bob?" Stu asks as though Artie hadn't asked the same question, sliding into the booth. He feels the depression receding slightly as the bar's speakers play a muffled version of "Stayin' Alive." It’s a literal lifeline.
"He is indisposed," Tony explains, checking a gold watch. "Apparently, he is assisting young Bartholomew with a film festival project. Something about 'cinematic revenge.' It was a prior engagement he could not refuse without risking... well, let us say he owes the boy."
"We're doomed," Artie moans, pulling at his collar. "We need a fourth. Someone with a niche."
"Did someone say they need a specialist in the niche, the kitsch, and the truly bitchin'?"
A shadow falls over the table. John Kooks, fifty and looking every bit the proprietor of Cockamie Collectibles, leans against the booth. He’s wearing a pair of vintage high-waisted trousers and carrying a sense of theatrical timing. He’s been skating circles around the bar's perimeter, his wheels clicking rhythmically on the hardwood.
"I couldn't help but eavesdrop," John says, his eyes sparkling with a predatory kind of charm. "I heard there’s a vacancy on Team 'Solid Gold'."
Artie squints. "Kooks. You run that shop in the mall. The one with the overpriced Star Wars figures and the original 'Charlie’s Angels' lunchboxes."
"Guilty as charged, darling," John says, turning his full attention to Stu. He doesn't just look at Stu; he appraises him like a rare first edition. "But more importantly... Stu. Are those the 1978 purple seven-inch platform skates? In the grape-soda finish?"
Stu blinks, his persona snapping back into place like a rubber band. "Stu’s footwear is beyond compare. They help Stu breathe the disco air—oo!"
"And that jacket," John breathes, stepping closer, reaching out to gingerly touch a sequin on Stu's sleeve. "This isn't a reproduction. This is an official 'Studio 54' staff jacket from the '78 winter gala. It’s in pristine condition. The stitching... the shoulder pads... it’s magnificent. Just like the man wearing it."
Stu feels a flush that has nothing to do with the bar's heating. He leans back, tilting his head. "John likes the threads that Stu spreads? Stu thinks John’s eye is... quite fly."
"I’ve always had an eye for the classics," John says, his voice dropping an octave. He ignores Artie and Tony entirely, focusing on the way the disco ball overhead reflects in Stu's tinted aviators. "You know, a man who maintains his gear that well usually knows how to maintain a high level of... performance. In all arenas."
The flirting is thick and unabashed—open, fluid, and completely unconcerned with the dusty expectations of the past. John has a history in this town; he’s dated Tony back in the day, even crossed paths with the elusive Bob, but he’s always had a soft spot for the man who refused to leave 1977 behind.
Artie, however, is a man of logic and rigid categories. He clears his throat loudly, breaking the spell. "Wait, wait. I’m confused. Stu, I thought you were... You know. Straight. You were married to Selma. Twice? Or was it three times? Is this some kind of meta-ironic roleplaying? Are we 'doing a bit' for the trivia points?"
Stu doesn't miss a beat. He stands up, his platforms hitting the floor with a heavy, confident thud. He spreads his arms wide, the sequins on his jacket screaming for attention. "Disco Stu is heteroflexible—oo!"
With a grace that defies his sixty-five years and his lack of a warm-up, Stu drops into a perfect, floor-touching split. The purple skates flare out to the sides, his purple pants straining but holding firm. The bar goes quiet for a second. Even Professor Frink stops his humming to stare. John lets out a low, appreciative whistle, leaning down so his face is level with Stu’s.
"I’ve seen a lot of collectibles in my time, Stu," John whispers, "but you are definitely the most flexible asset in Springfield. Do you... give lessons? Or is that strictly private-party only?"
Artie, ever the mood-killer, checks his clipboard. "He’s a proprietor who manages dance franchisers, John. He doesn't have time for private tutoring; he has overhead, insurance liabilities, and a dwindling middle-class demographic to cater to."
Stu looks up at John, a smirk playing on his lips. He uses the table to hoist himself back up, smoothing out his jacket with a flourish. The grey fog from Selma’s apartment is gone, replaced by the neon buzz of a new possibility.
"Artie has the facts, it’s true," Stu says, winking at John as he grabs a pen to sign the team roster. "But Disco Stu can be your professional dance guru."
John grins, sliding into the booth next to him. "Then let's win this thing, Guru. I feel a 'fever' coming on."
Tony simply nods, signaling the waitress for a round of drinks. "Welcome to the team, John. Try not to distract our star player until after the round on '70s Sitcom Sidekicks'."