Three hours later, the gang's enthusiasm for the dig had waned considerably. They were now spread out, roughly eight feet apart, each digging their own pits. When the ground became too tough, they used the water from the jugs to soften the earth. They had given up their pretense of hiding, since they hadn't seen even the flicker of car headlights since they started work. They could hear the occasional car, but since they couldn't see it, they reasoned that it couldn't see them, either. They still spoke in hushed whispers, although less frequently since they were all using muscles they didn't know they had.

"How deep can it be?" muttered Turk, echoing one of the arguments Larry had used to convince them to try this stunt in the first place. "The answer, Larry, is pretty fucking deep."

"You'll dig better if you'll shut the hell up," said Larry, grunting as he hefted the pick over his shoulder and buried it into the side of the three-foot deep pit.

Turk sat down on the ground. "Give me a sec," he said, breathing hard. "I need water."

"Fine," said Larry as he wielded the pick. "Don't sit too long or you'll cramp up."

Turk watched his three friends digging in the dark. Larry had the deepest hole. D.J. had the widest hole. Burt was, well, Burt was a computer science major. Turk looked at his hole and realized that his was actually the least deep. He stood up and brushed off his pants. This was nothing like he had imagined it. Maybe he needed some refreshment. "I'm going for water and Power bars," he announced. "Be right back."

"Cool," grunted Burt. "Hurry."

Turk trotted quickly across the train tracks and disappeared into the tree line.

Dale came to in the middle of the song, "Arizona." He smiled as he listened to Klause Meine cheerfully butcher the English language. Time for a quick once-over, and then a coffee break, he decided.

Dale pulled his car out and cruised slowly up the street, the window down, singing at the top of his lungs, which was almost louder than the blaring radio, "Laucked her in her car, tuk me too the scars, babe we nuts, on the weeey. Docked her on the moon..."

As he drove, he glanced at the warehouses, barely registering them. It was the weekend, after all. No one was here. He passed by the Gamesmen warehouses and noted with satisfaction that the trucks were still there, and even though the gate was wide open, no one had been inside the fence since Friday night. What a great job, he thought, as he cruised on past.

At the end of the block, Dale turned the car around and drove back to his accustomed parking spot. Once the car was still, he cracked his thermos and poured himself a cup of pre-sweetened, pre-flavored coffee. He sipped it slowly, enjoying the cool night air and the Scorpions. He debated briefly with putting on World Wide Live, their multi-platinum live album from their American tour. It was Dale's absolute favorite, because he was convinced that one of the live songs on the album was taken from the show he had attended when he was fifteen. Nah, he thought, adjusting the volume a notch, that's an album to listen to when he's going home. I'll keep it on Blackout for a while longer.

The coffee finished, Dale's head lolled back again. The CD player, sensing the end of the album, obligingly reset and started playing track one again. It knew the drill by heart.

The ringing phone was deafening in the still confines of Jerry Markham's car. The sound brought him instantly awake, lifting his head off of the cooler. He groped for it. "Hello?" he said.

"It's Morgan. This is your two A.M. wake up call."

"You sound sleepy," said Jerry.

"Dumb-ass, I woke up just so I could call you."

"I know," said Markham. "I was joking."

"Joke better next time. I'm going back to bed."

"Wait, don't you want to talk or something?"

"Talk about what?"

"Never mind," said Markham. "Thanks for calling."

Morgan hung up without saying goodbye.

Markham rolled down the window, letting the cool desert air blow through the car. That was the stuff, he thought. He took a thermos of coffee and a peanut butter and jelly sandwich from his cooler. While he ate and drank, he kept checking with his binoculars for any movement across the street. "Where in the hell are they?" he said out loud.

Headlights. Markham ducked down in his seat until he was looking through the steering wheel. The dark, boxy car drove slowly by, and Markham could distinctly hear a screaming guitar and someone singing. He sat up and peered through the binoculars. It was the security guard. What in the hell was he listening to? Markham strained to hear what he was singing, but it sounded off, like the guard was German or something. Huh, he thought, it's nice when they give foreigners jobs over here.

Still, the quiet had been broken. Maybe some music would wake me up, he thought. He pulled out his Tincture CD and popped it in. They were a local band, back when he lived in the Bay Area, and he used to watch them play all of the time. Their album was the last thing he had bought before leaving for school.

Tight, thick pop music filled the car. He finished his sandwich and called Steve.

"Who knows what evil lurks?" said Steve. Some punk band was playing in the background at Steve's house.

"It's the Shadow," said Markham. "Why did I know you'd be up?"

"Lucky guess," said Steve. "Any action yet?"

"No. What are you up to?"

"Digging up porn on Usenet."

"Sweet." Markham settled in for a lengthy discussion of midget porn.

Slowly, bit by bit, the adrenaline ran its course, until all Larry could feel was the pain in his shoulders and back as he dug and dug. Turk had brought back water, Gatorade, and an assortment of Power Bars, but Larry was still running ragged. It had, after all, been a hard day.

Larry's hole was waist high, and fairly wide. He stopped, resting on his shovel, and looked at it. He should have hit something by now. He was certain of it. Well, there was only one thing to do. He climbed out and walked six feet closer to the warehouse.

"Where are you going?" asked D.J.

"I'm starting a new hole," said Larry. "Just in case I miscalculated."

"Just in case," repeated D.J.

Larry picked up the jug of water and poured half of it out on the ground. As it ran this way and that, he scooped with his shovel until it had soaked into a good-sized puddle in front of him. He pressed his shovel into the wet ground, stepped up on the tool with one foot, and started throwing clumps of dirt.

It was a little softer over here, he thought. Maybe this is a good thing. An omen. I need something, Stercutus. Give me strength, or divine sight, or shit, anything. I'm begging you to lend me your strength.

Larry dropped his shovel, spread his arms, and looked up at the sky. "Stercutus!" he said in a clear, loud voice.

There was no lightning, no thunder, nothing. Well, maybe not nothing, Larry thought. His arms felt a little stronger. Maybe he was slowly coming back. Just for a little while, Stercutus, begged Larry. Please.

"Hey, Billy Batson," said D.J. "Assholes and elbows, let's go."

Larry resumed digging, and waited for his super strength to arrive.

Stacy and Otto each lay on their respective beds, baked to the gills, watching the Three Stooges marathon on one of the late night cable channels. Shemp was trying to get married, or he wouldn't inherit a million clams. At least, that was the plot as far as they could work it out. The volume was down, replaced instead by the shenanigans going on in the next room.

Moe slapped Larry. "Harder!" came the strident cry from behind the television.

Shemp and Moe stepped into the phone booth. "Oh, God, yes, right there!"

Shemp dropped a nickel and bent down to look for it. "Oh, no, not again...please...oh fuck yeah!"

As Moe and Shemp got more and more tangled up in the phone booth, the wailing and moaning increased in volume. Eventually, the phone booth exploded to shrieks of, "I'm coming, I'm coming, you food-stealing motherfucker! God-DAMN!"

Everything got quiet. Next door, a telephone rang. Larry picked up a nickel.

"Dude, that's fucked up," said Otto.

"No shit," said Stacy.