Perhaps in this world nothing ever happens by accident, but then you must admit there is a lot of overtime done "up there". Here, in one of the corners of the rundown outskirts of the city in mid summer, the heavenly workers all have to do their best : a former footballer in his forties, who only missed the Hungarian Cup of ’86 against Fradi because of a mishap in a lavatory, a lady manager with a bust size of 32 inches, who is suffering from a chronic hunger for money, three exhausted brain-champions, who are discussing the actual size of Bill Gates’s fortune while robbing a small savings bank, a wife whose money was stolen by one of her lovers, plus the lover himself, who claims he only borrowed the money and then turns out to be the first typewriter-performer in the world. To add to all these there is a diabetic plain clothes policeman, who makes extra money on the side by taking photos, or more precisely, photos of the wife, her lover, and – just to be on the safe side – of the commissioner, who happens to be the husband, i.e. the former footballer. Last but not least there is another man, a notorious self-appointed porn-star, who is hit on the head with a handbag containing the incriminating photos already alluded to. A hunt begins for the bag.