Larry and the guys were dying. An officer had come by and woken up the two drunks to give them a breakfast of runny eggs, cardboard bacon, papery toast, and muddy coffee. The guys each got a tray as well, but not even Larry could eat. One of the drunks cleaned his tray, then went straight to the toilet and puked it all up. The other one, who was flatulent in the evening, ate everyone else's breakfast with gusto.

"Argh," said the sick drunk. "Puke breath. Anyone got a cigarette?"

This started the other one in on how much he needed to smoke and they pointedly ignored the guys, who in turn tried their level best to ignore them back.

"Now what?" asked D.J.

"Well," said Burt. "If they can't get anyone to come down to the station, we'll have to wait until a judge comes in on Monday. I doubt they have a Sunday court in Tempe."

"What about a night court?" asked Turk, helpfully.

"Only in big cities, like Chicago or New York, where they have a premium on jail space," said Burt. "Here, the wheels of justice turn more slowly.

"Shit," said Larry. They were royally screwed.

"Tell me about it," said Burt.

"Is Holly going to call you back?" asked D.J.

"She can't. That phone won't take phone calls, only make them."

"Sure," said Burt, "they can't make any money if you can talk for free."

"Do you think she'll do it?" asked D.J. He still had possession of his father's credit card, and was prepared to use it in order to get out of jail. What he wasn't prepared for was his execution at the hands of his parents.

"Dunno," said Larry, staring into space. "I think so. Maybe. She seemed genuinely concerned about me...us," he amended, glancing around. He shrugged. "When we get out of here, I'll maybe take the money up to her myself."

"We should all go," said Burt. "And take her out to dinner, too."

"Hey, slow down there, Bruce Wayne," said Turk. "When did you inherit?"

"Look, think of it from her perspective," said Burt, in a patient tone of voice. He used that tone a lot when talking to Turk about women. "An ex of yours calls up and asks for a couple thousand dollars to be wired to Arizona so he can get out of jail? Most women, ninety-nine percent of them, would have hung up right then. The fact that she said 'I'll think about it' is far cooler than you could possibly imagine."

"I don't know, I can imagine quite a bit," said Turk in his best (meaning not good) Han Solo voice.

"He's right," said the flatulent drunk. "My wife doesn't bail me out when I'm on a bender. I have a special drunk fund for when I get too loose. She won't even talk to me when I come home. I've been married to the bitch for twelve years. How long you date this girl?" he asked Larry.

"Uh, about three months," he said.

"How come it didn't work out?" said the puking drunk.

"I don't know, really," said Larry.

The two men laughed. "So it was your fault, then."

"I guess so," said Larry, digging into the floor with the toe of his muddy work boot.

"Well," said the puking drunk, "if y'all broke up after three months and she's going to bail your sorry ass out of the pokey, then she's a one in a million."

"Wish I had me one like that," said the flatulent drunk.

"Hey, did she have really big tits?" asked the puking drunk.

"Yeah, I-Hey! None of your business, man!"

The two men laughed again, nudging themselves.

"Well, there you have it," said D.J. "Validation from Windy and Ralphy over there."

"Drunk tank philosophy," said Turk.

The cell door swung open. It was Compton. "All right fellows, let's go have another chat," he said.

They practically ran out the door. "You see that girl, you give her my best!" called out the puking drunk.

"Give 'er one from me, too!" laughed the flatulent drunk.

Chris Threadgill knew it was suicide walking into a police station with a box of Krispy Kreme donuts and three large coffees, but he thought it would help the negotiations considerably. Every cop he passed by gave him the hairy eyeball; are you trying to be funny, pal? Then the look of unbridled lust came over their faces. No one was immune to the charms of Krispy Kreme donuts. No one. He was nervous enough about walking into a nest of law enforcement given the amount of marijuana he'd smoked last night. He hoped there wouldn't be a drug test before he could pick up Otto and Stacy. For that matter, he hoped Otto and Stacy weren't holding. Dumb thought, he said to himself. Of course they were holding. He idly wondered how much it would stress his corporate card to get them out of jail.

Threadgill gave the desk sergeant his name and they called Officer Jones up to the front. He came walking out, smiling. "So you're the Krispy Kreme guy," he said. Jones was as short as Threadgill was tall, but, like most cops, he wasn't intimidated in the least. They shook hands.

"Word travels fast," he said. "I brought these in, as well as a couple of coffees. I think I can clear all of this up pretty quick. Can I talk to the guys?"

"Certainly," said Jones, smiling wider. "My partner will be glad to see you. He loves Krispy Kreme."

"Well, good," Threadgill said. "Maybe we can all start the day off on a high note." He winced as he said it. Would the cop notice?

Evidently not. "Speak for yourself," said Evans. "We're the night shift. We're going home to sleep after this."

He escorted Threadgill through the police station and into a larger conference room, where another cop was waiting just inside the door. "Mister Threadgill," said the second, larger cop, "I'm Officer Compton." They shook hands. "Hey, Krispy Kreme!"

"Nice to meet you," Threadgill said, trailing off. Otto and Stacy weren't in the room. Instead, he was looking at four young men, filthy from head to toe, and wearing black T-shirts. "Who's this?"

Compton looked surprised. "These are the boys we found at the warehouse."

"You said you wanted to speak to them, right?" said Evans. He took the opportunity to relieve the confused Threadgill of two of the coffees and handed one to Compton.

"But, what about the drivers?" said Threadgill.

"We didn't get the drivers," said Compton. "The trucks were gone when we got to the scene."

Fiery panic erupted in Threadgill's stomach. "I need to sit down," he said. The box of donuts dropped from his numb fingers.

Larry looked plaintively at Compton, who nodded. The guys swarmed the box and dug in, stuffing donuts into their face like they were starving.

"Oh boy," said Threadgill. "I need a second, here."

"Why don't I tell you what we do know, and then you can tell me what you know, and we'll start from there?" said Compton, sitting down beside him.

Threadgill nodded, sniffing his coffee. Compton broke down the particulars from their point of view. He told Threadgill about the security guard, Larry's activities in the vacant lot, and their subsequent detainment.

When he was finished, Threadgill nodded and replied, "Well, here's what I know. I have two drivers, who already went missing once this weekend, who were supposed to be driving those trucks to Washington. I can't find them, and you can't find the trucks."

"Sir, we didn't steal those trucks," said Larry around a mouthful of donut. "It was two guys."

"Okay," said Compton, "let's see if we can put it all together, now. Did any of you get a good look at them?"

Larry said, "I was too busy hiding."

"Same here," said Turk.

D.J. just nodded.

"I could hear them talking," said Burt.

"Yeah?" said Evans. "What did they say?"

Burt rolled his eyes upward and squinted, trying to bring it back to the surface. "Not much, they were mostly being quiet. But I'm pretty sure I heard one of them say something like 'Hoo Ha, drugs, I'm all set.'" Burt looked at the cops sheepishly.

Threadgill breathed a sigh of relief. "Thank god! That's Otto and Stacy, the drivers."

Both Compton and Evans glanced at each other. In the span of a second, they made the mental calculation for how long it would take those trucks to reach the state line. In another second they realized the trucks were now out of their jurisdiction, and therefore their responsibility was at an end. It was the end of the shift. They were both exhausted, so they let it drop.

"Okay, well, that solves the mystery of the missing trucks," said Compton. "Now, we just have this little matter to clear up." He waved his hand at the guys. Seeing that the Krispy Kreme donuts were about to disappear completely, he pulled the box away from them and snagged one for himself.

Threadgill wiped his face with his open palm, forcing his eyes open. "Tell me again what they were doing in the field?"

"Well, that's the funny thing," said Compton. "They all have a different story. The only thing that we can all agree on was that they were digging on your property."

Not exactly, Threadgill thought. Technically, they were Bud Cavender's problem. What he should do is pass the torch and let that fool handle it.

"Why were you digging on the property?" asked Threadgill.

Everyone started to speak, but Larry waved them all quiet. He had been listening intently to the conversation, and he knew good and well who Chris Threadgill was from the Internet press releases. In spite of his predicament, Larry was tickled pink to be sitting so close to someone who was so high up at MageWorks.

"First off," said Larry, "I just want to tell you, I love Battle Quest."

"Thank you," said Threadgill, smiling automatically. "Always nice to meet a fan." Then his smile disappeared. These four schmucks sitting in front of him were fans. Oh god, he could see the scandal in the trades now. DEMON-WORSHIPPERS PLAYING BATTLE QUEST IN TEMPE ARIZONA, the headlines would say. He closed his eyes and took a drink of his rapidly cooling coffee.

"Well, Mr. Threadgill, It's like this," Larry continued. "I-that is, we, are all four big fans of the LegendMaster line of games."

The headline in Threadgill's head changed to DEMON-WORSHIPPERS PLAYING LEGENDMASTER IN TEMPE, MAGEWORKS IN FINANCIAL RUIN.

"Well, we heard about this rumor, see, about this cache of modules that were, like mint condition, from back like twenty years ago. And so we thought since you were moving the company that we would drive down here and see if we could recover them. You know, for us."

Threadgill's eyes snapped open. "Which module?" he asked.

"The Phall-The Phalanx of Ebon Keep."

Threadgill blinked twice. "Refresh my memory, guys, it's been a long time."

Larry glanced at the two cops, unsure of how to begin. "Uh, it's green," he said.

Threadgill nodded impatiently. "What's it about?"

"Uh, there's this tower, and it's in the hands of a Lich-Queen and her phalanx of undead soldiers, and you've got to fight them all if you want to get the crown on her head, which is magical."

The light went on in Threadgill's eyes. "Oh, I played that one!" Then he frowned. "It was terrible. That's like, the worst module ever written. It's the reason they went to Second Edition, you know." The headline changed again to TOTAL IDIOTS DIGGING IN FIELD.

The cops rolled their eyes. They sat back and listened and tried to follow the bizarre shift in the conversation.

Threadgill was genuinely puzzled. "Why on Earth would you want that module, of all the old good ones?"

Larry was just amazed that Threadgill used to play LegendMaster. "Well, there were supposedly fifty thousand of them buried out there."

Threadgill's mouth dropped. "You're kidding."

"You really used to play? What character class?" asked Larry.

"Okay, fellows," said Compton, standing up. "Moment of truth time, here. Mister Threadgill, do you wish to press charges on these four?"

Threadgill looked at each of them in turn. He tried to put himself in their place, but just couldn't. As dumb a kid as he was, he had never done anything this stupid. And these four were old enough to know a lot better.

Still, there was publicity to consider. The Internet would hear of this. And anyway, what did he care? The property wasn't his responsibility anymore, and frankly, it was more aggravation than it was worth. No, he decided, it would be best to keep this out of the papers altogether. Damage control at this point.

"You know what?" said Threadgill, leaning back in his chair. "I would really like to just chalk this up to fanboy shenanigans and leave it at that. How does that sound to you guys?"

Everyone in the room nodded vigorously. For Compton and Evans, it would be a lot less hassle and paperwork. For the guys, it was freedom.

"Then let's just drop the charges altogether, okay?" Threadgill said to Compton. He looked at the four. "But I hope this will teach you not to do things like this again. Keep it in the living room next time, okay?"

"You got it," said Larry.

"That's fine with us," said Compton. Everyone stood and shook hands, and the guys gasped and chuckled with delight. They were free.

Chris Threadgill walked out of the police station with alacrity in his heart. They didn't even make him sign any paperwork; just thanks for a job well done and that was it. Cool beans, he thought.

And that was it for Tempe. Otto and Stacy were gone, and no longer his responsibility. He had done his job. It had been a miserable week, and a genuinely terrifying weekend. There was nothing left for him to do but go to the airport.

In fact, he mused as he climbed into his rented Ford, there was no reason on Earth why he shouldn't sneak back into the hotel, quietly pack, and simply hide at the airport. His flight wasn't until 5: 50 p.m. but he would much rather doze at the airport, in relative anonymity, than spend one second longer in Tempe with Hillary. That was the ticket, he said to himself. Clean break, no problem. "Fuck you, Tempe, Arizona, and the dry heat you rode in on," he screamed in his car.