Lisa finds Lisa at the club

The base is shaking the brick walls of The Ecstacy when she gets there. There's a lineup of single guys waiting for the bouncer to let them in. He takes one look at your running eye makeup and lets you in without so much as checking id or the contents of your purse. The club needs sluts, and you look like you fit the profile.

It's dark and deafening inside. Blue lasers stab at your eyes through the dry ice smoke. There's a DJ on a podium to the side. The crowd is packed, and you know exactly where you'll find yourself. Ten years ago you'd find a big spender and get him to pay for the VIP section with bottle service. You'd get elbow room and some bubbly, and all it cost was a wink and the promise of a handjob.

You push your way through the milling horde. One, two, three leches cop a feel of your anonymous ass as you pass. Younger Lisa didn't choose good clubs. That's part of the problem.

You spot yourself sitting on a wraparound purple couch by a glowing white table. Some guy with four buttons open and the collar popped on his silk shirt has his arms around Younger Lisa. He's probably got some douchy name like Chad or Trevor. She's holding a flute of champagne and pretending to listen to this Trevor's verbal diarrhea. She hasn't spotted you, her twin from the future.

First you have to slip the sleeping pills into the flute and then get younger you out of here. Later you can fix the rest of her life. The first obstacle is the velvet rope between you and the VIP section. There's another bouncer in a tight black shirt guarding it.