It’s been a good year, a damn good year, and Tits Akimbo almost hates to spoil the wow finish with housekeeping, but she ain’t gonna stand by and let anybody get away with this triflin’ bullshit. It’s the principle of the thing.

“No hard feelings,” she tells the guy in the safe. “Not after this, you hear?”

His eyes are huge, huge and white. He moans something that might have been an apology around the mouthful of bloody bills.

“Damn straight,” she says, and grins. She’s got her back to the streetlight, so he won’t be able to see much, maybe just the glint of her teeth, but that’s all right. She snaps the door closed and spins the lock. She’s already dialing, phone in the crook of her shoulder as she backs the car up into the safe.

“Who is this?” says a muffled voice on the end; Quarter-Mouth Larry.

“Shut the fuck up, you cold sack of shit,” she purrs. “One of your stooges is–” the bumper knocks the safe over and down. It’s a godawful racket. “–at the bottom of San Lorenzo hill. There’s about thirty minutes of air in the safe, so hustle.”

“The fuck you–“

“Kid, I hear you let him die, it won’t be five grand I stuff down that ruin you call a throat.” She hangs up before he can say anything else. Bam.