Bernie reached around his neck to produce a silver chain with a triangle of black glass hung from the lowest link. The three-sided frame gleamed. It was filled with a bottomless pit, darker than the inside of your eyelids.

  “Shades!” Bernie commanded.

  The void answered as a lonely eye appeared from the depth. It rolled in response to Bernie’s try-to-look-cool stance before retreating out of sight.

  An awkward pause…

  Then a folded pair of bifocals emerged. Blacked out circles that eclipsed the eyes.

  Bernie slid them on then turned his head to Spencer.

  “Showtime.”

  “Wait, wait, wait. Timeout!” Spencer rattled, blocking Bernie’s path. “Where are we?”

  “A long way from home son.”

  “Well, can you take me back there? Please?” Spencer added in dying hopes.

  “Fraid not, interdimensional travel ain’t cheap, so no return ticket.”

  “INTERDIMENSIONAL!” Spencer screamed, out of his usually calm character. “As in different dimensions!”

  Bernie slapped him, just hard enough to restart his senses. “Pull your pants up princess. Isn’t this what you wanted? Purpose. Adventure!”

  “I thought you would say something motivational, not open a wormhole in my dining room,” Spencer argued sheepishly.

  “What good’s motivation when you can actually just do something?” Bernie posed sarcastically, whipping off the shades.

  Spencer was speechless.

  Unauthorized tale usage: if you spot this story on Amazon, report the violation.

  “Now. Are you gonna help me rob this place or you gonna wait outside?”

  “I’m not going to help you steal,” Spencer squealed.

  “Relax, we’re only stealing information, no harm in that.”

  Bernie accepted Spencer’s stunned silence as his agreement to participate.

  “Here’s the plan. I distract whoever’s at the front desk. Wait five, then come in, jump the counter and crawl to a computer terminal in the back. Find the name Clarence Fable, we need his address.”

  “Why would they know that?” Spencer questioned.

  Bernie sighed and pointed to the words above the door.

  COMMUNITY CORRECTIONS OFFICE

  “He’s on parole,” Bernie moved past the interruption, “under the watchful eye of the law. You know in case he decides to…like…murder anybody…again.”

  Bernie took a breath.

  “Game’s starting soon so we have a closing window here, and we don’t want it to shut on our hands,” and with that he returned his shades to his face and resumed the cool guy pose before strutting inside the building.

  Spencer recited the plan in his head while pacing outside, checking the time every few seconds. If he was going to play a criminal accomplice, he was going to be punctual.

  Five minutes was up.

  He tried to mimic Bernie’s casual strut, which translated into more of a slouched walk. Upon entering, the lobby was lifeless. Was this a good or bad sign?

  Just follow the plan he reminded himself.

  Spencer tiptoed around the counter and down a hall.

  Computer screen spotted, and someone was still signed in.

  He skipped to the F section. FABLE, top of the page.

  The mystery man’s mugshot popped up. Clarence had a mop of curly hair, overgrown eyebrows, and an untidy beard. An overall raggedy appearance. Chances were his listed address would turn out to be the sidewalk just outside.

  Apparently not the case, as it read 14 Forest of Malt further down the page.

  Spencer’s job was done, and the curtains could close on his short-lived crime career. That was until something else caught his eye from Mr. Fable’s rap sheet. Something under known associates.

  MORAY, BERNARD

  One click and Spencer had stumbled upon Bernie’s muddied record. Seems like the two were cellmates at some point. Obviously, the man was no saint, currently undertaking a heist and all, but Spencer gave him the benefit of the doubt. They released him to rejoin the world after all. Given this, he saw no point in reading on.

  Spencer scribbled the address on a scrap and paper and commenced his escape.

  The lobby had a lot more life in it now, Spencer hoped at least. Half a dozen uniformed officers lay motionless.

  “Don’t sweat, they’re just stunned,” Bernie said nonchalantly. Soap and suds were dripping from the ceiling. One fellow floated by, stuck inside a big bubble. Bernie kicked it out the way and held the door open for Spencer. “You got it?”

  Spencer held up the paper in reply.

  “That’s my boy!” Bernie bellowed, slapping him on the back and sending him flying through the exit.