Sly-and-Carmelita

“An underground theatre set up like a speakeasy; how pretentious can one guy get?” Sly couldn’t hear Bentley’s answer under the wave of static screeching from his earpiece. He was either out of range or too far down, and either were possible at this point. The attempt to find an alternate route into the Opera House Mansion of one Don Octavio, though successful, had sent the raccoon scurrying through miles of identical sewer tunnels festering with tar. Making matters worse was the sudden switching of gates, often forcing him to double back into enemy fire. As such, finding this hideaway seemed like a blessing to the raccoon. The place was well-sealed against the burning chemical odor and, though the main path up was heavily locked, there had to be an extra way back to the surface. It was a perfect find. Too perfect. Sly’s tail twitched and shivered at the thought. Far too convenient. Nice to look at though. The walls, glazed marble with no pipes or jutting fixtures, were