PCP threw out an arm towards one of the speakers and immediately they all began blasting her favorite metal songs. Only she could dance so smoothly to the awful, grating stuff. It was music for murder. She slung an arm around her brother's neck and took the joint gladly, sticking it between her lips to let it hang loosely there. She fumbled in her back pocket, pulled out a lighter (a little device no rational person should have ever sold to her) and lit up, then held her joint to MJ's to light his, as well. "We're going to do everything - dance with me!" When the first puff of smoke hit her lungs she pressed closer to her brother with a giggle. This was her nature, to mix and to dance and laugh and play.