The burglary was effortless, and Clem found himself crouched behind a dumpster blocks away, winded but energized.
Two problems, though.
One, the security camera. Skillfully hidden and focused exclusively on the front counter, it caught everything.
And two, the owner: Frankie Scaramella. A local degenerate who didn’t like people stealing from his mini-golf emporium, even if it was only a few measly bucks.
Breathing comfortably now, Clem had just unscrewed the tip jar lid when he felt the cold steel of a golf club pressed against the back of his neck.
“You got something of mine,” said the disembodied voice.
The Weekday One Hundred 