Title: Dancin' Fools
Fandom: The Good Place
Rating: T
Warnings: Drugs and alcohol
Summary: Jason throws a party. Set during one of the reboots.
Notes: Title from Frank Zappa. 

"The Bad Place is kinda racist, but discos make everything better. We're gonna throw the coolest afterlife rave EVER. Let's get our whole dance troupe together and rock out with our homies! Plus do acid. Lots of acid. If we work together, Michael will get so jealous, he'll totally forget about his prank and get high with us. PARTAAAAYY! Cowabungaaaaaaaa!" He launched himself from the massive stage - now ten feet high thanks to Janet - onto the pulsating dance floor, landed headfirst and popped up again, grinning,

"Oh, lovely! Not only is my house now full of ultra-refined snack foods due to my supposed soulmate, it's now a confab venue for substance abusers and boogie addicts. Horrific!" Tahani threw herself down on the fainting couch, ignoring Eleanor's glare.

You know, I never thought I'd say this, but Jason's got a point. Minus the acid," said Chidi. "Locke said that as members of a society, we owe each other to abide by a social contract. I know there's been some… glitches along the way. But shouldn't we at least try to get along, given we're neighbours currently stuck in the same simulated reality?" He grimaced at the wildly gyrating purple-lamé-clad dancers, the reek of hairspray and the flashing silver disco balls, groaned and covered his ears. "If you can call this a reality. Ow. Make the music stop, please. I'm getting a migraine."

"You know what? Fork this. You benches can go ahead and say kumbaya and have your lame little dance party. Or if you're Chidi, sit on your fancy Armani ash trying to figure out the answer to life and the universe. I'll be in the corner. Disco Janet! Twelve bottles of tequila!"

Eleanor yelped at the bing! right behind her. "Hello. Not Disco Janet." The bottles popped into existence, along with a neon-green disco chair.

"I suppose you're right," sighed Tahani. "When life gives you lemons, make lemonade. That's exactly what I told my good friend Millie Bobby Brown before she got her first big break. Only, I was upstaged, again, by certain people. Who shall remain nameless."

She sniffed and glanced to her left, where a blonde figure in a white David Bowie getup was attempting to knock back shot glasses faster than Michael Jordan on a good day. "I must say, Eleanor, I admire your commitment to drinking all those."

"Nope. Patented Shellstrop strategy. When life gives you lemons, mix whiskey sours. And make out with really hot bartenders until you wake up the next morning in a pile of your own vomit dressed in a scrampie suit. Totally not an example from real life."

She grinned suddenly, disarmingly, and grabbed Tahani's hand. "C'mon, legs-for-days, let's hustle. Shake that beautiful butt. I bet you can show us how it's done. You too, weirdo. It's in the - in the social contract, get it?"

"No," said Chidi, mystified. "That was a non-sequitur and I do not get it. Now, can we - ahhh!" Eleanor yanked him to his feet and together all three sashayed into the floor.

Or, rather, Eleanor sashayed, Tahani danced like the elegant swan she was, and Chidi tried to skitter away from a random dude dressed like a rainbow lorikeet and tripped over his own two feet - bringing him crashing into the other two, struggling for breath.

Great. His anxiety had literally knocked him over with a feather. The disco party began to go fuzzy around the edges.

"Oh, my god, what have we done? What if this is some kind of divine retribution for - for all those times I drank almond milk? What if we're actually in The Bad Place?"

"Chidi, dude," said Eleanor, in her reasoning-with-Chidi voice. She steadied her grip and guided him to a (thankfully plain white) chair out of the way of the party. "Chill out. Loosen up, okay? No one's in the Bad Place. Jason's enjoying himself -"

"Because he lied! I told the truth, and I'm miserable!" exclaimed Chidi.

"Yeesh. You'd be miserable anywhere. Tahani was the most perfect human being ever, and she's miserable too. So that must mean - oh. Holy forking shirtballs."