Imp spoke out of the corner of his mouth: “Camera, ceiling, ten o’clock, range three meters. Camera, ceiling, your six o’clock, range eight meters. Store detective, my three o’clock, other side of the floor. And we still haven’t got the costumes. Are you feeling lucky?”
The giant toy store’s interior had been carefully designed by retail psychologists to engage the imagination. More recently, management had brought in a sorcerer to amplify it: everything felt bright and colorful and hyperreal, popping like the onset of an acid trip. But Imp instinctively knew that any trip he did here would go bad fast. Even the normally ebullient Game Boy was cowed by the possible consequences of what they were about to do. Imp, as ringleader, felt a sick sense of dread—like an apprehension of gangrene in toyland—that he was at pains to conceal from his crew.
The New Management had reintroduced the Bloody Code (the old eighteenth-century penal system that prescribed the death penalty for pretty much everything above the level of a parking ticket) during the Queen’s Speech at the state opening of Parliament earlier this year. Sensible shoplifters were reconsidering their life choices. Not that shoplifting was ever a sensible career choice, but hanging was a brutally disproportionate response. Imp, despite his other character flaws, didn’t want to see any of his crew executed. “Are you feeling lucky?” he repeated, backing it up with a gentle morale-boosting push.
Game Boy’s shoulders slumped. “Pervert suits first,” he mumbled.
“I’m a professional, I’ve got a store card and I know how to work it,” Imp reminded them. “DeeDee, are you ready to motivate?”
Doc Depression could pass for a store detective himself, in his seedy Oxfam charity-case suit and skinny tie. “If necessary.”
“Let’s go, then.”
Party costumes were on the third floor, and once they ran the gauntlet of pink tulle princess gowns and alfär warrior armor they came to an aisle of reasonably priced outfits for adult party hosts: clowns, mostly, but also pirates, princesses (subtype: grown-up), bank robbers (in questionable taste), escaped convicts (ditto), highwaymen (Imp wasn’t going anywhere near that gibbet, thank you very much), and, finally, transhumans. Fictional cops like Judge Dredd and Judge Death (very edgy, very of the moment) vied with the Marvel and DC Comics franchises, then real-life capes like Officer Friendly, White Mask, and the other Home Office supes.
“You are not putting me in a dress!” Game Boy shrilled as Del menaced him with a frilly black and white maid’s uniform.
“But you look better in a frock than I do—” Del pitched her tone low, trying for sultry and missing by a mile.
“Fuck off!” Game Boy recoiled as Del leaned over him, propping herself against a clothes rail.
“Children!” Imp stepped between them, a bundle of adult cape-and-mask outfits draped over his arm. “Store detective, two o’clock, closing.” He tipped Doc a nod and wink. “Showtime.” To Del, he added, “Stop triggering Game Boy, asshole.”
“Aw, you’re no fun.” Deliverator punched him lightly on the shoulder, then slid the maid’s uniform back on the rail, defusing Game Boy’s impending panic attack.
The store detective loomed over Imp like an overly polite brick wall. “Can I help you gentlemen and lady?” he asked, clearly winding up to eject them from the store.
“Yes, you absolutely can!” Imp smiled and pushed. “My sister just told me I’m hosting a surprise birthday party for my nephew, the theme is Capes and Villains, we’re really short on time, and we all need grown-up costumes! Can you point me at the changing rooms?” He held up his zeroed-out John Lewis store card. “Amex Black,” he added, and pushed again.
A minute later they were inside the changing room area. “Here, try this one,” Imp said, handing Game Boy an outfit: Robin, from Wes Craven’s Arkham Asylum remake. Game Boy’s gasps were slowing, the nervous whoops coming under control. “Robin’s about your build, isn’t he? You won’t have to femme up.”
“Fuuu—thanks.” Game Boy swallowed and ducked into a cubicle, limp with gratitude.
Imp turned to Del. “Just for that you’re playing Princess Shuri.” He shoved a bagged-up costume at her. “Serves you right for gaslighting the boy: you can be the odd one out in this rodeo.”
“I’m more than my skin color, bitch.” She lowered her brows and glared. For a moment Imp thought she was going to punch him, but then the tension left her shoulders and she chuckled darkly. “I’d rather be Harley Quinn. I could hit people with a baseball bat.”
“Payback for GeeBee.” He turned to Doc. “You’re the Bat.”
Doc’s mouth turned down. “Gloomy and introspective, what kind of disguise do you call that?” He blinked at Imp. “Hey, who are you going to be?”
Imp took a step back in the direction of his own changing room. “I’m the Joker, of course!” he declared, beaming at Doc. “I’ve got a scheme, a crazy scheme, to take over Gotham City! But to bankroll it we’ve got to start by robbing a strong room. Suit up, everyone, Showtime starts in five.”
While Santa’s public execution was taking place on Regent Street, Evelyn Starkey was taking an hour-long break from work to browse the most exclusive kitchenware store in Mayfair. As Imp was declaring his nefarious goals, she was staring intently at a gleaming display of microplane graters.
“Beautiful,” she murmured, visions of their uses dancing in her mind’s eye. “Guard!”
“Miss?” Her new bodyguard, two meters of steroid-enhanced gammon in a black Hugo Boss suit, was unprepared. He clearly hadn’t bothered to read the checklist Human Resources always included in the briefing pack for her new minions. “What is it, Miss?” He glanced around dimly, nostrils flaring as he searched for threats.
“Take a memo,” she drawled. “Re: Rupert’s request for possible performance improvement incentives. HR to investigate the use of microplane technology for epidermal degloving as a possible alternative to current Yakuza protocol. A/B testing to be applied after the next stack-ranking identifies suitable candidates for
