The smell of beer and cheap intrigue was particularly thick that night at MacLaren's.
Ted's Narration, 2030
"Kids, in the long and legendary history of our group's stupid bets, few reached the majestic stupidity of 'The Slap Bet.' And like all great Greek tragedies, it began not with a blow, but with a secret. Or in this case, with the flat refusal of a Canadian woman to enter a shopping mall."
At the table, the atmosphere was charged. Marshall, buoyed by the new, fragile understanding with Lily and the rapprochement with Alyx, proposed a group outing.
"The Grand Opening of the 500th Sharper Image store!" he announced, waving a shiny flyer. "There will be free foot massagers! Free! Who's in?"
Ted nodded enthusiastically. Barney was already mentally choosing which unnecessary items to buy. Lily murmured a "sounds fun" with genuine interest. And Alyx, who was distractedly browsing the craft beer menu, shrugged.
"I could use a foot massager that isn't Barney with his fidgety fingers," she commented without looking up.
But it was Robin who froze the enthusiasm. "Uh, I'll pass."
Five pairs of eyes fixed on her. Robin, the intrepid reporter who faced criminals, who never said no to an adventure.
"Pass?" asked Marshall, hurt. "But they're free foot massagers."
"I just don't feel like going to a mall," Robin said, shrinking a little. "We can do something else."
The excuse was as flimsy as the flyer's cardboard. Ted, the officially worried boyfriend concerned about relationship health, frowned. "Come on, Robin, it'll be fun. We can share a Cinnabon."
"No!" Robin's voice was a bit too sharp. "No. I'm not going to malls. Sorry."
The silence that followed was so awkward, Alyx slowly set down the menu. Her internal radar—the one that sometimes picked up signals from distant futures and sometimes just detected basic human nonsense—lit up. It wasn't a premonition, but the recognition of a classic pattern: clumsy evasion.
Barney leaned forward, his eyes shining with the light of a predator scenting blood. "You don't go to malls? At all? Is this a 'I don't set foot in malls on principle' thing, or a 'there's an international treaty forbidding me' thing?"
Robin flushed. "I'd rather not talk about it."
That was the spark. The phrase that, in the group's dictionary, directly translated to: I have a juicy, embarrassing secret.
Ted, wounded in his role as the boyfriend who should know everything, began the interrogation. Marshall, imbued with the new philosophy of "no secrets in the reconstruction," joined in. Lily tried to defend Robin's privacy, but it was a lost battle.
Alyx watched the spectacle with a mix of exasperation and amusement. It was like watching puppies chew a new toy until it was destroyed. But then her gaze met Robin's, and in her friend's eyes, beyond the irritation, Alyx saw a flash of real panic. This wasn't just a silly secret; it was something she was terrified would come to light.
"Guys," Alyx intervened, her dry voice cutting through the debate. "If Robin doesn't want to go to the temple of unrestrained consumerism, maybe we can choose a less conflict-ridden place of worship. Like a bar. Or this very bar, for example."
But the machine was already in motion. Barney had formulated his theory with the solemnity of a scientist discovering a new particle.
It was then that Marshall, inflated by his recent emotional victory in Atlantic City and his role as an amateur detective of others' feelings, produced his rival theory.
"Nonsense! If it were an embarrassing secret related to malls, it would be something much more visual. Something involving lights, cameras, action! Robin was a mall star! Mall porn! Erotica by the soda fountain!" Barney said, his imagination at 100%.
The table erupted into chaos of protests and stifled laughter. Lily almost choked on her beer. Ted seemed on the verge of an aneurysm.
And Alyx? She let out a laugh. It was a brief sound, surprisingly free, that rose from her gut at the absolute absurdity of the situation. "Mall porn?" she asked, wiping away an imaginary tear. "With Orange Julius backgrounds and extras dressed as seniors walking slowly? That, Stinson, is the most creative thing I've heard from you in months."
Barney shot her a look of profound gratitude. "Thank you! Someone here appreciates the intellectual rigor of my research."
The discussion turned into a bet. Not about money, but about something much more precious in the group's emotional economy: public humiliation. "The Slap Bet" was born in that moment, with the elegance of a train wreck.
"Whoever guesses right gets to slap the other," Barney announced. "With full force, with an open hand, and a clean blow worthy of the gods."
Marshall, with his bear-like hands, seemed to consider the physical ramifications. "What if the one who guesses right is Robin, and the secret is something else?"
Lily, who had been watching Alyx with a mix of amusement and concern, tried to steer things in a different direction, but ended up dazzled with the idea of being the Commissioner of the bet. And so it was decided. "My word will be law, and my first law is that this is stupid and you should stop talking about Robin's life," Lily tried again.
But it was too late. The bet was on: Marshall, the defender of the secret marriage; Barney, the prophet of mall porn; and a secret that Robin guarded as if it were Canada's nuclear code.
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