"Nngh!" Jim dipped with the sudden unexpected weight in his hand. He promptly righted himself and tossed the backpack over his shoulder with as little fuss as possible. Eyes locked onto a crack on the wall, he missed the expression of resentment that slowly morphed into Shifty's rubbery features as he realised his authority was being challenged. During the unfolding stare-out, he dared a glance at each of the combatants, and found that, where Aimee was a picture of cool defiance, Shifty looked ready to pop. And pop he did.

"It's on your head!" he deemed, with all of the authority of a firebrand priest, "Just so you know. When the boss gets home, it's on your head. And especially your head, chihuahua."

He stepped aside, and eyed Aimee with big brotherly disapproval, and a sad shake of the head. When Jim tried to slip by, he brandished a rolled up copy of the National Enquirer with menace, patting it hungrily into the palm of an open hand. His eyes narrowed. Jim glanced down to avoid his gaze, and there, on Shifty's feet, he saw the most beautiful pair of Kayanos he'd ever seen. Light from the window struck the rubber in such a way that it looked like silver lightning. Whatever feelings of doubt or mortal peril he had at that moment evaporated - it was a moment to be cherished and shared, that would cross boundaries, and unite enemies - when men put aside their differences and come together in common appreciation of exquisite footwear. Jim looked up, beaming sunrises at Shifty, and said, "Hey man, sweet shoes!"

"Keep walkin', asshat."