Oliver's Lounge is a small bar/club on the top floor of a small building otherwise filled with offices and, on the ground level, shops that open on to the street. "Extraterrestrial" is vodka otherwise filled with Irish Cream and, on the ground level, melon liqueur. Four is an integer.
Take one of those three things, multiply it by ten, and you get the number of minutes I had previously been at one of those other things. Don't multiply it by ten and you get the number of the third (remaining) thing that I had previously consumed. If you can't do the math, don't worry: I couldn't at that point either.
I had gotten off a pretty nasty day at work and headed to the top floor with Eric and Elaine, two colleagues with whom—before that night—I had not experienced anything particularly supernatural. Granted, I could say that about any other colleague, or really any other human, but such is life. At that time I was not thinking of