“Aren’t you Harry’s kid? Sheesh, look at you, all grown up and all, you’re the spittin’ image of your old man. You know, It seems like only yesterday that me and your pop used to stand here at this very spot and plan the big ones.

“Like that concert ticket heist. I’m sure you heard about that one. We brought in wise guys from all over the country, each one a specialist in his field. No one knew each other, and to keep things secure, we all used aliases.

“For instance, our weapons man was Mr. Eminem from Detroit, and our getaway driver was Mr. Paul McCartney from Liverpool. Yeah, me and your pop sure had things planned.

“We had cased the joint, a ticket wholesaler down on the east side, for over two whole weeks. We knew they were moving a big shipment of tickets for Bryan Adams, Festival Con Dios and Bela Fleck & The Flecktones to the local outlets, and if we struck during their coffee break, we wouldn’t run into any trouble.

“But I had a bad feelin’ in my gut about the whole thing when I saw the look on the clerk’s face. The enforcer from Minnesota, Mr. Bob Dylan, pistol-whipped him until his nose fell off, and the look in his eyes told me that this was no surprise. Someone had tipped them off. One of us was a stoolie.

“Well, I’m sure you know how it turned out. How we barely escaped with our lives, and how we hid out in that warehouse near the canal. And I guess you must have heard what we did to your old man after we found out he was the snitch and that the feds had forced him to turn on us.

“You know, when I close my eyes I can still hear him squealin’ like the pig he was when Mr. John Tesh skinned him alive. Right before Mr. Ronnie James Dio chopped him up into little pieces and fed him to the reservoir frogs out back. Yeah, those were the good old days.

“So, how’s your mother?”