Critique Me Thread

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THE escape began, set by the moon, only miles from the sand and the sea. The clouds hid in summer hibernation as the lunar spotlight lit the streets and the dry valley air brushed the faces of the two men. Along the gritty stucco-ish facade of his sister’s Beverly Hills mansion, Jacques crept in spidery tip-toes parallelly to the château walls, the papery skin on his back rived on the architectural cheese grater, his positioning that of a standing spread eagle, practicing an exacting watchfulness with each step he took, he tightrope walked a ledge at the daunting height of an inch or two on a sliver of exposed concrete foundation flush to a contemporary gravel garden while small red-velvet-cake colored smudges trailed behind glistening in the moonlight. Peering over his right shoulder, Jacques scanned the sturdy, oak French doors, the circular windows, and the entire perimeter.
To Jack’s 10 o’clock, Jung S. Roberts, also known as his not-so-criminal partner-in-crime, also known as his B.F.F. from the Bayou, also known as Doctor Johnny Phud-Er-Sumthin’ by his humid cousins in Louisiana, also known as Cheshire Cat because his initials J.S.R. sort of sounded like the name Cheshire if you said it as a word and not as individual letters, like a dog when you bring them home from a hysterectomy surgery or an equally illanguid, haphazard creature, dragged his feet five meters behind Jack while uprooting rocks in the garden, which tumbled over the toe of his shiny leather shoes and back onto the lawn where they laid in uneven piles.