"Who needs the Quik-E-Mart," Max and Liz seem to ask, busting through the front door of the joint. Liz enters first, gun blazing and yelling, "Down! Down! Down!" like a crazed square-dance caller with "Rock Lobster" the only song in her arsenal. Max molecularly manipulates the surveillance camera while Liz brandishes the gun at the store's overnight proprietor (is that Sam? Would he be working the night shift in his own store?). Max, moving toward the back of the store, warns Maybe Sam, "Better do what she says. She's crazy." Sam hits the bricks as Liz vamps about staying on the floor, staying down, down staying, and staying down with downness. Max heads right past the Chupa Chups and the Mint Milanos, muttering something about "a moment on the lips, a lifetime on the hips" in his stoic alien way, toward the back of the store. He reaches the back, throwing a rack containing various bread products angrily to the side (take that, Dr. Atkins, his remaining strength seems to say). He holds his left hand in front of a bare wall, creating a red beam that looks like those laser pointers kids started bringing to school in eighth grade until you weren't allowed to bring them to school anymore because people who had those in other towns meant it was because they were in gangs. One can only hope Sam isn't at home, watching helplessly while his night guy is all getting shot up. Oh, wait. What am I talking about? Ain't nobody watching this at home.

Back outside, a mysterious car sits in front of Sam's House Of Sudden Endless Relevance. Inside of said car, an older man in a fedora speaks with an Italian-esque patois into a cell phone, "Yeah, I, uh, wanna repawt an awmed robbery in prawgress. At Sam's Quick Stawp on Highway 65. Yeah, hurry." Thank you for your contribution to the Glorified Extra Fund, Mr. Sin-NOT-tra.