Wednesday Thomas drew up to Burtininkas Richards with a sheaf of scribbled-on papers. She slammed them down on the desk, just enough to get his attention away from his work.

“Yes, Ms. Thomas?”

“Oh, Mr. Richards, it is the most deliciously funny thing,” she purred, “but it seems that your notes on your next performance have a slight miscalculation.”

“And what might that be?”

“You see,” she said, thumbing through the papers until she found the right one, “this diagram shows that the butcher knives should be placed here.” She caressed the paper with a blood-red fingernail. “And, funnily enough, if they were placed there in the performance, it would result in my death.”

“Ah,” said Burtininkas, the slightest twitch of annoyance forming on his lip. “That is, indeed, an unfortunate miscalculation. But as you see here, these cement blocks are positioned above this rafter, resulting in my crushing.”

“No worries. A slight miscalculation,” she said, winking at him wickedly as she walked away.