The queen huffs. "That's not even remotely true," she counters, but she takes his glass away from him anyway, marching toward the bar in the corner and nabbing a bottle of peach juice and a bottle of grenadine. The bartender doesn't even bat an eye; this is her party, after all, and she's paying for all this shit. She pours a little of each in Gary's glass, turning it a rather pretty gradient from red to pale orange, and then shoves it back in his hand.

"There you go, baby. I call it a Sloppy Bottom."