One glimpse of Kowalski and Ray absolutely, completely, totally and utterly lost it. He was slapping his thighs, laughing so hard that he thought his lungs would give out.

Over his guffaws, Kowalski was chanting, “I hate you, I hate Welsh, I hate Saint Valentine, even!” He punctuated each statement with a jab of his plastic foot-long arrow, his white feathery wings almost sliding off his back.

It was close thing, but Ray managed to get a hold of himself enough to choke out, “Just tell the bad guys you’ll fix ‘em up if they confess,” before collapsing in laughter again. If looks could kill, Kowalski’s could’ve beaten him up, kicked him in the head and left him in the street for little old ladies to whack with surprisingly heavy bags.

Which was, of course, when Welsh came back in. “And this will be your costume, Vecchio,” he announced, dropping a long piece of flowing material into Ray’s arms. All hilarity drained, Ray straightened up and looked at the outfit, horrified.

It was pink.

He didn’t have to look up to know that Kowalski was grinning, but he did anyway. “Your halo’s slipping,” Ray informed him.

If possible, Kowalski’s grin grew even larger. “Bite me.”