Another season of gift giving is upon us. As my billionaire boss Rick’s annual Hanukah party approaches, the pressure is on to get him the perfect present. But what to get the man that has everything? Last year, I tried my hand in gifting Rick a box of cigars. “I have one of these already, you fool!” Rick cackled. Everyone in his living room pointed at me and howled with laughter. Even the nine servants wearing Gora fire hats who comprised the human menorah couldn’t contain their giggling. I ran out, tail tucked between my legs. Whatever I gift Rick this year, it cannot be something he already owns. Not again.

For this upcoming Hanukah, I dared to do the impossible: add to Rick’s globally renowned collection of political bumper stickers. He has already amassed 13,000 of them—everything from a signed Martin Van Buren horse-drawn carriage bumper sticker to a vintage “Hillary for Prison” decal. I scoured eBay for hours and hours but found nothing novel. I was starting to worry I’d be the laughingstock of yet another year of gift giving. Will I forever be the butt of a joke?

Then, one night, I had an epiphany during a childlike lovemaking session. “The windshield registration sticker of the car J.F.K. was assassinated in,” I blurted out, “of course!” I hopped off my wife and ran to the computer. As I frantically googled, one thing became apparent: this sticker was not for sale.

The next day I found myself on a flight to Dearborn, Michigan. The plan was simple. That night, I would conduct a go-for-broke heist on the Henry Ford Museum that the car was kept in.

When sunset finally approached, it was prime crime time. I used my circular glass cutter to make a hole in the front door. I stuck my hand through the opening and unlocked the door to let myself in. Once inside, it dawned on me I should’ve just made a wider hole and stepped through it, but you live and you learn.

Once past the lobby, I noticed the security guard asleep in his chair, watching the nightly news. It was almost too easy. I shook him awake and offered him fellatio to turn a blind eye to my burglary. He shrugged and said, “all right.”

Afterwards, I finally arrived at J.F.K.’s infamous 1961 Lincoln Continental, parked on a lush red carpet. The car was more beautiful than I ever imagined, and far bigger than its pictures online. I stepped over the railing surrounding it. Instantly, booming alarms sounded. There must have been a trip wire, or maybe Darryl from security had turned on me after our arrangement. I started to freak out. Am I not good enough at oral?!

I tried briskly peeling off the vehicle registration, but it was glued to the windshield, and I didn’t want to rip it. Time was running out, so my plan quickly shifted to escaping with the whole car. I swung open the car door and suddenly stopped hearing the museum’s sirens. I sighed, relieved. Then I realized this was only because the car alarm I activated was drowning them out. I gasped, unrelieved.

As I rapidly hot-wired the car, I noticed it was missing an engine. In a frenzy, I panic ordered a new one on Amazon, but time was ticking. With security nearing, it became clear two-day shipping doesn’t always win out against competitors.

I needed to improvise a new plan, and fast. Drawing from my glory days in a college improv troupe, I asked the audience for a suggestion. Then I remembered I was never in an improv troupe. And I never went to college. And my only audience member was a glass cutter. That’s when an idea struck me.

I cut a circle in the corner of the windshield around the registration. After some finesse, the glass disk popped off, like the backside of Kennedy’s head, or the frontside of Darryl during head.

I could see security in the distance. They shouted, “stop right there!” As a personal rule of thumb, I never follow orders without ‘please.’ It’s just how my mother raised me, I guess. “You didn’t say the magic word!” I called out, then galloped away from them.

I rushed out of the museum, hopped on my getaway vespa, and sped off into the starlight. I couldn’t believe I had actually pulled it off. Now, all that was left was to gift it to Rick.

I showed up to the Hanukah party early. It was just me, my wife, and the human menorah. We waited. People slowly filed in, and eventually, the living room was teeming with guests—a real who’s who of who’s Jew. Rick, the king of grandiose entrances, emerged from a large present sitting beside the fireplace. No one knew how long he’d been hiding in there, but he was drenched with sweat. “Who cares to present the first present?” he asked, still catching his breath. I instantly volunteered.

I handed Rick the round piece of glass, wrapped in tin foil to keep it fresh. He unwrapped the gift and gazed at it for a moment. “What is this?” he wondered.

“The registration of the car Kennedy was shot in. For your sticker collection, Da—I mean Rick.” I’m not sure why I almost called him Dad, but it probably definitely boils down to a deep seeded need for approval.

Rick took another long pause, then smirked. “This comes from a windshield, yes?”

I nodded attentively.

“This would be a very generous, and even breathtaking gift... if I collected windshield stickers. But I’m a bumper stickers man. Surely you were aware of this!” Rick declared, smugly looking around for reinforcement. An eruption of pompous laughter filled the room. “Windshields are the literal opposite of bumpers, dip-wit!” chortled the candle third from right on the human menorah.

Before I could even think, I found myself shouting “You know what?! You’re a prick, Rick, and I’m sick of your sticker stickler shtick!” I grabbed the gift out of his hands and stormed out.

In the end, the joke was on Rick, for he had arrogantly passed up on a rare gift of great value. The next day, I successfully sold the registration on the dark web for $355,000 at auction. On the drive to the post office, to ship it to the buyer, I was pulled over for a reason so trifling, it slips my memory. The officer gestured towards the registration sitting naked on my passenger seat. “What is that?” he asked.

(Do short stories even have an) Epilogue

As I write this personal account, I now sit behind bars. The punishment for the heist itself was a mere slap on the wrist (of handcuffs). The brunt of my prison sentence, though, came from one overlooked consequence of possessing the precious windshield sticker. It’s a mistake that will haunt me far beyond the remainder of my three years here at Eastern State Penitentiary. What was the thing that ultimately did me in, you ask? I was driving with an expired registration.