Two more maroon-coated, beige-slacksed men grab guns and run haplessly after no one (I think this is a valuable lesson that if you want your security needs taken care of right, you're probably better served not having your big, big safe guarded entirely by members of DECA…but I'm just sayin'), while Ice Ice Baby makes it safely outside with two suitcases. He makes his way to a red vintage car, holding the suitcases in front of his naughty bits like some modified Austin Powers joke without the irony, the comedy, or a light bulb whose wattage exceeds, like, my age that might allow me to more than guess what's going on right now. He tries the door handle and finds it locked, and then bangs on the window. The window rolls down, and the decidedly Polito-esque voice from behind the wheel demands, "Not so fast…show it to me." Oh, c'mon, Polito! Why not give Polito 2.0 a little of his dignity, for Chrissakes? Polito 2.0 opens the bag and shows Polito stacks and stacks of cash. Polito celebrates from behind the wheel, yelling, "Yahtzee!" And I guess we can celebrate his decision to at least eschew an even more Sinatra-esque exclamation of the "boo-yah!" or "aces, Sammy!" variety, but I'm going on record to say that the conceit of names-of-board-games-as-dialogue is just a little, well, Parcheesi. Or something. The back seat unlocks and Polito 2.0 hops in, his bare bottom and its chance meeting with the leather seats doubtless forming an adhesive so strong it could seal up the Continental Divide. The car peels off. Thrash metal blares. We hold for a moment on an almost pitch-black (surprise!) night-in-the-desert (SURPRISE!) shot, lit only by a red neon sign reading "Versailles Casino." "Loosest slots and least linear plot development in town" is written almost imperceptibly under the casino's name. Scattergories!