At this point, Lambert is comfortably boozed, but not so much so that he doesn't notice when something is missing. Like the little yellow ring of ... something that was floating in his violently pink cocktail. He squints at it suspiciously, using the plastic straw to cautiously poke at it (he hadn't used it all night, setting it aside to quaff his girly drink like a grown man).

"Hey," he drawls, using his elbow to nudge Strange roughly. They are, despite the hour, in a remarkably accurate depiction of a tropical beach -- not that Lambert would know what that looks like, never having been to one in his life. Despite the brilliance of the light, he doesn't seem to be developing actual sunburn, possibly because it's coming from a round globe installed in a painted sky overhead. The sound of gently crashing surf is being piped through unseen speakers, and a wave pool is generating remarkably convincing waves.

And yes, he's lost his shirt again.

"Hey," he nudges Strange again, heedless of whether or not he responded the first time. "What happened to my drink?"