Miles Edgeworth hated these kinds of places. It seemed to him nothing but a breeding ground for all forms of depravity. In the middle of the room, people were wriggling around like worms who had, by some evolutionary catastrophe, managed to walk upright. He was willing to bet that about 85 of them were drunk out of their minds, while the rest were only drunk enough to be halfway there. The great source of the stuporing substance was forever crowded with those looking to either lose themselves in the various concoctions supplied, or to lose others for the benefit of their inebriated entertainment. The floor was sticky with various drinks, gum, and other things he wish he hadn't seen to begin with, much less identify. He was sincerely scared as to what he would find in the bathrooms. The bright flashing lights, flickering on and off to blind him again and again in the dark room, together coupled with the big bang booming music that rendered him deaf on a consistent basis, served only to give him a headache the instant he walked in. Throughout his stay, he had worn a scowl that he had perfected over the course of his years, hoping to scare everyone else off but the one who had so foolishly called him here. Though, of course, a few idiots had tried to penetrate his aura of distaste.

There was the one woman, obviously bored, who tried to start up conversation with him. Edgeworth, of course, could barely hear this woman for the life of him, and winced at each time he did, as it was certainly louder than whatever decibel level the music was playing at. She left after she had tried unsuccessfully to get him to utter more than a curt nods and scowls. There was also the two people he hadn't known, and wished never to know again, who tried to get him to dance with another woman at the bar. He did not know why there were cajoling him so, nor did he wish to find out, and thus set himself to ignore them until they went away. Which they did.

The hardest part, though, came when one clearly inebriated man began to "hit on him," as his peers said. Despite Edgeworth's strongest methods of shutting down any sort of communication, the man continued to make advances toward him, saying things which might have sounded more appropriate had they come out of the mouth of a similarly intoxicated ape. It got to the point where Miles had to use his voice, well versed on the prosecutor's bench, to silence the man and send him off. This tactic, however, turned against him as the man got angry. The man began to verbally assault Edgeworth in kind, which turned from snide remarks about Edgeworth's dark red suit, black dress shirt, and white frilled collar to disparaging comments about his mother within a matter of minutes. Miles had heard much worse in the courtroom, though, so he remained unfazed, much to the drunk man's dismay. It was thus that the man thought to smash a nice glass bottle on the table and to proceed and attack Edgeworth.

Three seconds later, the poor drunken man was on the floor, clutching his abdomen, groaning about rejected feelings or something pathetic like that. Shaking his hand out from the blow, Edgeworth decided that he had had enough of this dismal place, important case meeting or not. He stormed out of his personal level of hell and stomped his way over to the classy bright red sedan that was his car. As he was unlocking the door, he heard the voice of the person who had called him. Giving her the fiercest glare he could muster, he extended his pinky and his thumb and arranged them to fit over his ear and mouth. Without further communication, he slammed the door shut and drove off. A fine place to meet, indeed.