Molly and Bill clambered up the drainpipe like a couple of bedazzled Cerberus, each with a butter knife wedged between their teeth for leverage. Halfway to the roof, Molly began following a trail of lacy pink shoes. "I didn't think Daria Spielberg was such a party junkie," she mumbled around her knife. Bill eyed her suspiciously as they paused at an open window. "What's with this heavy breathin'? We've got counterfeit oxycontin to score, or did you forget?" Inside, Molly peered at the fluffy clouds of her childhood envy: a princess ballerina cake worthy of tutus, wands and vibrators. But it was the rapist rainbow, with its warm-beige bottom lip, that piqued her interest. Cradling a facemask in her fist, she aimed for the upper hand. "We're gonna score little Jack's stash, 'cause he and Lil' Trey went to toilet bra strapping..." Bill checked his watch. "What bug has bitten you? Pack your fanny and let's get movin'!" He was pushing the knife toward her when Molly spotted him behind her back, eyes closed, clutching a mask between his legs. "Gotcha," she whispered. Then they heard the DJ's voice booming from inside. "Seven PM, lair Mastermind," he shouted. Bill gripped Molly's wrist and dragged her into hiding.