In Fargo’s third season, the Parking Lot King of Minnesota feuds with his brother—Vincenzo googles feud, faida—over an heirloom postage stamp. A sibilant, bulimic Brit takes over the Parking King’s empire, creates shell companies, offshore accounts, duplicate books. The Brit, whose teeth are jagged, green, maintains the moonwalk, too—not Michael Jackson’s dance, but the Giant Step—was fake. Vincenzo puts the Brit on pause, tells me he’s only 50% sure the moonwalk is a fact. Don’t tell your friends. I say I won’t. Before he murders his fratello in a tussle over the framed stamp—hard shove, sharp shards, jugular gush—the King pleads nasally, I’m a good person. Everyone but you likes me. By morning, Vincenzo’s back on board about the moon. He thought about it tutta la notte. Troppa gente coinvolta, too many people involved, he says from bed, as I unchain the foyer door, connect my Bose earbuds.

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Image: “First Steps” by Alex J. Tunney