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“Frankly, Dweezil, she gives me the jimjams,” asserts Silas, pointing with a droopy fourteen-inch cigarette. “I say we scotch the broad before the judge shows up and hightail it for Colombia with whatever’s left in the cash box.”

Dweezil skances at the woman in the little holding cell, who’s levitating with a bored expression. “Scotch her how exactly?” he whispers. “We ain’t got time to bury her and we already know she won’t drown!”

“You could burn me,” suggests the floating lady. “You haven’t tried that yet.”

“At least somebody around here makes sense!” says Silas.

Later, it doesn’t work.