Jack Wilder doesn't have a home. He doesn't have a place where he can shrug off his leather jacket, kick up his boots on the coffee table, turn on the television, and count the money he earned that day. He doesn't have a roof over his head, a mailbox to collect the bills, a guest room to house all the strange knickknacks he might've had the chance to steal. He never had a place to call his own.

His story doesn't start at a home and a fucked up childhood. Those bridges are burned. His story starts in the street with a raggedy deck of cards and the items necessary to put on a magic show to make the money he needs to survive. Some people learn magic to get laid, other use it to exploit. Hey, he can't steal everything, right?

Jack realized that it didn't matter if he got caught stealing; as long as he got out quick enough. He was anonymous and he knew when to get out when the shit hit the fan, or rather, moments before the great climax. Only a few people can see what he really does. Fewer people can appreciate. To escape was an art. That's why they call him an escape artist. A simple flip of his jacket, a hand through his hair, and a dive through an air duct system always made it impossible for him to get caught.

Jack Wilder is not picky. He won't only take your wallet and your identification; he will also take, but is not limited to: your watch, wedding ring, your Tiffany Co. bracelet that your Grandmother gave you on her death bed, your gold earrings, and whatever else is in your pockets.

Jack Wilder doesn't have a home, but at least he knows his way around a deck of cards, and he fucking swears that he's gonna make something good come out of it. He isn't going to be a street kid forever. After all, nothing is ever locked.