Faber was slowly walking along the sidewalk leading to his house.  "Miserable day, miserable job, miserable life; I just want to go home, pop open a bottle of beer and drown this miserable day-job-life in sweet, sweet liquor juice." At the front door, he leaned his head against the wood and whined. "Baby wants his bottle."

Floyd sighed. Redding being bombed back to The Stone Age and he gets to play babysitter to the FBI. Again.

"Okay, all right, your muse left you," Harold said. "Now what? What happens next?"  I don’t know! That’s my point! I have no muse! I’m running blind here, Harry! I’ve never tried to tell a story without her before! I’m lost!

Still fuming from her encounter with her storyteller, Cocoa stormed down the alleyway, grumbling, growling, a hop, skip and a jump away from a downright hiss about my meddling with her efforts to become a bonafide member of the Felidus. Hours were ticking away, though, and she knew darn well that she had to get a kill in before midnight.

Marley Bean’s Daily Ground was bustling. News reporters were getting their caffeine fix to speak as quickly as possible of the destruction and mayhem sans actual death and the return of the Redding Bomber.

Sitting with their backs to the wall, Faber and Floyd were quiet, their arms crossed as the night wore on.  "Man," Faber said, "protecting with our lives is boring."

And I was gone. Out as silently and as easily as I was in. Harold sat in his recliner briefly reflecting on my last statement and silently resigned to check his snares one more time should Cocoa decide to try to kill him again.  Maybe even check them twice. Just to be sure.

The Sandman shook his head. "You got the wrong guy, Holiday." He turned to look at her. "You think I’m the only hitman who calls himself ‘Sandman’?" He shook his head again as he returned his attention to the road.

Then came The Sandman, dead, as far as most FBI agents were concerned. But a clerical error too obscure to describe here led Jessica Holiday to believe The Sandman was still alive and as prolific as ever.

As Carrie spoke softly with Caroline, Monty and Resin ate their bacon and eggs quietly, Monty occasionally looking over his shoulder. Neither of them listened to their daughter. If they had, they might have recognized the description of her pet alien, and his ominous promise to return.

Flinging her body across the carpet, she struck the rock of the fireplace and spun in the air, landing on all fours. She was looking around the living room with quick jerks, then found Harold. He was staring at her, the color draining from his face.

The truck drove over the caltrops he’d placed in the roadway, the tires exploding, sparks shooting out from behind the bare rims as they skidded across the concrete.