I pulled out my black ski mask and slid it over my big fly head.  I made sure that my gat was tucked beneath my wings.  I played through in my mind the sequence of events that were about to take place:  I would storm into the liquor store, corral everyone in there to a corner, disable the security cameras, and proceed to empty out the cash register and procure a few bottles of Maker’s and Malort before leaving triumphantly a rich fly.  After reviewing my game plan, I took a deep breath and charged through the front door, just as I had imagined.  And though I saw liquor I also smelled pizza.  What is this, some kind of wonderfully sick joke? Why yes, yes it is.

The smell of baking pie dough and the sight of greasy cheese overwhelmed me.  My plan had been wonderfully thwarted.  I landed on a freshly baked pie.  The flaky, buttery crust was enough to make me slap my maternal arthropod.  The copious usage of mozzarella was delightful.  And the pitchers of Berghoff beer were the perfect plunger for my food clog.

And though the food was comforting, the mirror with the Chicago skyline was as cheesy as the aforementioned mozzarella.  Not to mention the lounge-like atmosphere that included a singing, blonde bombshell and passion-red pleather seating.  Marie’s is a Chicago joint if I’ve ever seen one.

On this night my black ski mask served only as a napkin for my sloppy face.  Besides, the only thing stolen on this night was my heart.