Cyril was happily drinking his fourth beer and waiting for the start of the film. Ginny spotted them and came over, as did Doc. “So, Skeet, do you think this is a suitable film for an impressionable lad?” asked Doc with a smile. “Well, why not? I can’t see a musical doing me any harm, mate.” “Not you, ya bloody drongo, Cyril. And what do you mean musical? This is about as far from a musical as you’ll ever get.” “Oh hell, keep ya voice down. I told him it was a musical. What else could it be with that title, mate? I mean Last Tango in Paris hardly sounds like a western or a spy flick.” “Shit, is Cyril ever in for a shock. You too, mate.” Doc was laughing hard and turned to inform Ginny of the situation. Ginny said, “Huh. I thought it was a dance thingy, like, um, that Saturday night thingy that my mom told me about.” “Fever,”
