

Past the front door, Dean, Annabelle and I go straight through an empty living room towards an under-the-stairs door. Past it, we go down a narrow staircase leading to... a basement? I think? The music grows louder with each step we take – a frenetic electronic beat that makes me think of some night clubs down in the Lower Levels of Hell, where everyone looks like they're a methamphetamine dealer from 1980's Germany. We finally reach the final steps and Dean turns a lopsided smile our way. "You ready?"

"Is this the party?" I say, raising an eyebrow. "Why are you wearing a tux for a basement pa – holy mother of money." He opens the door and on the other side is what I feel a billion dollars would look like if it was a place. The basement is not a basement at all – or rather, it's a basement in the same sense that the Atlantic Ocean is a glass of water. We are looking at an underground pool and poolside area. A motherfucking big one, at that. The walls are imitation stone, giving the place a cave-like appearance, and they bend left and right at the end of the room, extending both sides to God-knows-where-this-majestic-freaking-place-ends. A high ceiling looks down upon a crescent moon shaped pool (I swear to God, dude), the water shinning in indirect lighting shifting colors every few seconds. It turns blue, then orange, then red, then blue again in front of my mesmerized 'holy-shit-am-I-high-on-bath-salts-right-now' eyes. All around the pool, vivid-green paths of carefully gardened flowery bushes zigzag in swirling patches knee high here and there, like a couple of mini dog's hedge mazes. An underground garden surrounding an underground pool. The music is loud now, like nightclub loud, oozing from professional-looking DJ equipment resting on an elevated platform on the corner of the spacious room. And Dean was not kidding about the underdressed issue too. The girls are all wearing long, the boys are wearing tuxes or suits. They talk and mingle poolside and by the garden patches like Hollywood celebrities, hands around martini glasses and whiskey bottles – none of that red cup peasant shit. For real, the whole thing looks like a manifestation of Donald Trump's subconscious mind. "You like it?" Dean asks, turning to face me. "You guys have an underground pool area," I say, trying to keep the star-struckiness of my voice to a minimum. "It's like Magic Kingdom for college kids," I complete, failing at it. Dean smiles. "Come on," he says, grabbing our hands. "Let's go get a drink. We go around the freaking moon shaped pool (I'm not getting over that one) and past the ridiculously well-dressed and lovely-smelling people, cutting through towards the other end of the room. A left turn past an ice sculpture of Cupid and Psyche (I'm not making this shit up I swear on my father's kingdom) reveals an even wider adjacent room with another pool, this one not moon shaped and rather long, like a river. The pool extends straight for several feet, surrounded left and right by little patio tables and chairs where people drink and smoke cigars and overall act better than me. Here and there, little stone bridges make the connection between the left and right banks of the river-pool. The walls wave and dance with the water reflection. People's faces wave and dance with the water reflection. Seriously, it's all very, very nice. We go past all of that to the end of this new room, where a wide bar rests under soft blue light. Two student-aged guys (also in tux) tend bar with smiles on their faces. "Hey Simon," Dean says to one of them. "Can we get two of... whatever the hell will make life even better right now."

Simon winks at Dean and grabs a couple of drink shakers. Dean leans his back against the bar and turns to us. "So..." he starts, smiling, banging his open palms against the marble counter of the bar.