Chuck had had a good time. He'd eaten as much of the food as he could without appearing selfishly greedy (he knew how to stop at comically greedy, though.) He'd enjoyed the company of his friends. They were good people, good people to laugh at other people with. He enjoyed the movies, and if he was a movie reviewing type, he would have given them good reviews. Well, bad reviews. But good bad reviews! As in, like, films that are bad but good in ways the creators did not intend. You know, like his costume? Except his costume was shit as a stylistic choice. These films were shit. But it worked!
As is now obvious, Chuck is not a film-reviewing type. He lacked the same knowledge about film terminology and quality that he had about more important subjects like global politics, the gossip in Seattle police stations (his dad had a habit of bitching about his colleagues to his kids and reporting recent incidents of police stupidity to his wife) and the pedestrians in Red Dead Redemption (he knew their names and everything. Don't judge. Being an editor of the Red Dead Wiki required detailed knowledge.)
Chuck was the second to leave. Unwilling to walk home in the incredibly stupid and impractical "outfit" he was wearing, yet just as unwilling to discard it and throw away the good memories he had spent many minutes working on, he called his parents and waited to be picked up. It was late at night, so traffic was fairly minimal.
A few minutes later, a family friend came by to pick him up, being the designated driver at the party his parents were attending.
((Chuck Soileau continued elsewhere.))