Caper, continued

I have received emails numbering in the four figures, people clamoring to know just what the hell happened with Gabe's car! Well, one person commented. But this isn't, I remind myself, the Sports Illustrated site the day the new swimsuit issue goes online, nor a cliff-hanger of the "Is Little Nell dead??" variety; it's a single post among many on this raffish-yet-refined electric newspaper on which I record thoughts and the events of my day. Should I not be rich by now, though?

What was I saying?

Oh, Gabe's car...yeah, we looked in windows, talked about running some plates, that sort of thing. The dude who has the shop called Gabe on Sunday, said "yeah, man, we're on it!" in his best Mitch Mitchell-ese.

Anticlimax, thy name is this caper!

But none of this is settled. Not by a long stretch, son.

Here is Gabe, outside the garage, getting ready to really show these guys a thing or two by hitting the stray front grill of some decrepit sports car with a fireplace brush: