Naturally, none of us were interested in FTL's violent retribution, but at the same time, the proposal that we let his weasley friend back into our party was unappealing, to say the least. As we stood there, engaged in a cordial, silent standoff, who should come sauntering out of the party but Rob! Sizing up the situation in the few heartbeats it took to get the image of Fuck The Law from his eyes to his brain, his face broke into a concerned, yet understanding expression. He walked over to our behemoth, and in a Gumby-esque feat of stretching put his arm around his shoulders. He turned him around and walked him away from the party, leaving his young protege to sputter and simmer.
And that was the last we saw of them. For 4 hours.
I was sitting on the steps at the entrance to the venue when the two of them returned, laughing and joking with each other. FTL looked as relaxed as an enormous bodybuilder can ever look - and apparently he had forgotten all about the reason he had come to our party in the first place. He declined to go inside and summoned his defeated lackey to accompany him back to the parking lot, where I am sure they both got into a monstrous mid 80's corvette, popped some metal into the tape deck, and then raced on to whatever it is a bronzed god of a man does with a 90 lbs drug dealer at 5 in the morning.
From the events of this evening, I learned that it can sometimes be useful to have someone in the immediate vicinity who speaks sketch fluently. Not difficult to come by at a rave - just make sure you keep them away from the cash box. And the police. And your girlfriend.