It was originally supposed to be an interactive experience, but  when Powell Lake had been covered in thick yellowed Plexiglas, the fish all died. They dipped their mouths into the air for dwindling oxygen, they
grazed the bottom of the plastic for nutrients, but they all found themselves dead one way or the other. The Plexiglas only opened in one little door on the side, so removing the dead fish was out of the question.

This shenanigan was Phil's idea. Phil owned the Powell park district, and everyone said he would take down the Moon and smash the whole thing into souvenirs if he had the proper funding, which he always did. How he got the funding was always a mystery, and Phil intended to keep it that way.

It was an all-too-cold May night, and Joe was in the iron chair in the back alley behind Powell Park. It was blackened from other people that sat on it. Phil whistled "Sweet Caroline" as he poured the gasoline over Joe. Joe's eyes were jammed closed to the point of shattering his eyelids as the tears mixed with the fuel.

"This would be what you would call your last chance," said Phil, cleaning the gasoline residue off his clownlike thick glasses. "The plastic fish gallery on Powell Lake can't be done without the money."

"I know, I know, I know, I know, I know, I know, I know," said Phil, in between spasms of panic, "my wife's coming with the money in like ten minutes. All the money you want and then some."

"You've got five."

Phil jumped back a little and dropped the can of gas when he saw the lights of a purple Jeep coming down the alley. Joe's wife didn't drive a jeep.

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