Cordy dead. Fred dead. Dead Fred. Wesley, dead. Everyone dies, unless they're dead already. It's either that, or attempted suicide. Silently, surreptitiously, Bar conjures up a tumbler of Scotch. Two fingers. Complimentary pink umbrella.

"...You know me too well, darling."

Sipping his drink, Lorne hides away behind his wall of numb nothingness. "I don't know what to say."