“Braqueurs/Nobody Eats at Brunch (the Introduction of Thalia)”

“C’est un braquage! Ne bougez pas!”

“Hey, man, English.”

“D’accord. Dommage. Ma faute.”

“Nigga, what?”

“Okay, okay.” his beard was more a shade of dark brown than it was black. He laughed.

“One-thirteen,” the lanky Aussie looked at his wrist, then looked back up; repeating this two more times. “One-oh-eight. We have to move.” his urgency wasn’t so much so that he didn’t see the security guard low-crawling for his gun.

“Don’t do that, fatso,” Styles noticed; taking a moment to chew, before biting back into the crisp apple. It was superstition, and health is wealth, as he always told the crew. Fatso froze as he acknowledged where the bellowing voice boomed from, seeing the matching figure behind an orange bandanna. “This’ll be all over in a few more seconds, everyone — relax.” he flicked the safety switch to burst, paying attention to his apple; turning it, eyeing the meatiest pieces left to bite. Just then, she snapped her fingers.

As she walked by, eyes popped up. Her jeans painted to her frame, her black heels matching her black jeans and black turtleneck. She wore a black bun and gold hoops; the gold matched the gold that was the stiletto of each heel. Men gasped and the women sobbed. Her orange bandanna tied underneath an…