A Fine Cauldron of Fish

Before Margaid could answer, the guy shook his head at Andrew. “It’s okay. You can keep my shirt. Although I don’t know how you're holding it when your arm’s about four inches away from it, but hey, I’m sure I simply had too much to drink. Keep it, that’s fine.”
“What? No, I don’t want your shirt. Margaid, well she thought I wanted it, but—”
“No, don’t let him go.” Margaid shook her red head. “You do want his shirt. And you need his pants, too.”
Before Andrew knew what was happening, she shoved the shirt into his arms. Then she turned back to the quaking man and grabbed hold of his waist.
“Oh, no, Margaid, don’t do it.” The moment Andrew yelled out, he knew she wasn’t going to listen. He watched in utter horror as she unsnapped the poor man’s jeans, yanked down his zipper, and slid his pants all the way to his ankles. Damn, I’m glad he’s wearing underwear. Black boxers with writing all over them. What does that say? Andrew read aloud, “B is for big.”