The Marquee on 34th St. loomed large and imposing in the night, the carnival ground well and truly dark. Molly nodded to the building, her finger pointing out a service entrance to the side. “ *You still got that old uniform?* ” The dry rustle of folded netting and braided belts answered her question as Bill slung them over his shoulder. She sauntered up to the door, her ankle cranking over. Molly slid her foot up it, the pointed toe finding purchase on the metal latch. “ *Tell me who invented kids' parties if you claim to steal any, m'dear.* ” Bill strode by, his heavy feet bumping the door open. The inside was dark, the standard of light hard to come by without interrupting an untold number of priceless sculptures. “ *Let's get in and out, eh, girl?* ”, he grumbled, looping a hand around her elbows and helping her breast the threshold. “ *Presents first, guests last. Introductions all around.* ” The smell of fresh latex fillies, tiny polystyrenes, and plastic bananas greeted them like a popo got on hands and knees for a lick. Molly gave Bill a feigned, tactful up and down. “ *You might've worn that eight days, and 'tis looking a bit shipwrecked.* ” Bill's brow furrowed as he really looked at himself, the elaborate dyed blond curls peeking just a bit out from beneath the hat, the patina of shaved fake whiskers mottled like a leopard's fitted collar. “ *Pah, they'd ken an impostor crusty if we were Hagard's own. Quick work means no work.* ” He hurried to the office door as Molly struck a pose for the cameras. “ *Fair and hostess are the last we'll find...* ” Bill sniggered as a splotch of blood spattered the wood at his feet. “ *Quick work means no work.* ”