Uncle Joe was a wizard.

Or at least, everyone always called him a wizard, people whispered about his sorcerous ways at family functions, and his coat was covered in stars and moons.

He was our black sheep I guess, but he liked me, because that’s where his money went when he died. Apparently he didn’t have any apprentices or whatever it is wizards have, so he gave all his money away to me. In cash, at that.

So there I am, briefcase full of cash, hundred dollar bills given to me by my uncle, the wizard. I’d never held a briefcase full of money before, it’s not the sort of thing you see every day, and it was making me nervous. Nervous enough for other people to notice. Nervous enough for two men with bats to follow me down a dark alley. Nervous enough to make my hands sweat and drop the briefcase, the money exploding out, a fragmentary grenade of greenbacks fluttering through New York City.

If the thugs are any indication, that’s where all the frogs came from. They’re beginning to be a bit of a problem.