"And the bank charges high interest on its loans and financing, high account management costs, and it draws lots more outsiders..."

"And most outsiders aren't nice well-behaved boys like you," she finishes with a half smile.

"You'll make me blush."

"I think I'd like to see that, actually. Want to grab dinner tonight?"

...aaaah, flirting.

"I'm afraid I'll have to decline; I'm otherwise committed." To never ever having a relationship again aah.

"Shame." She drinks the rest of her coffee, sets it down, then gets up. "My break is almost over so I should be heading back," she says. "But do let me know if you change your mind," she adds with a wink.

"Will do."

    "Hey boss," says someone who's been looking through a pair of long range binoculars for long enough he thinks his eyes might fall out when he stops. "Are we sure the armoured car's meant to arrive today?"

"No, numbnuts, I said todayish," explains said boss. "They don't keep set schedules."

    "That's such a hassle."

"Well if it weren't a hassle other people woulda stolen the money first and then we wouldn't be able to now would we?"

    "...guess that makes sense."

        "What if we run into Zash the Stampede, though?" says another accomplice.

"I've told you already," replies boss guy, rubbing his temples. "It's just some damn rumours, he's always five places at the same time, he's not gonna be here."

        "But what if he is?"

"Why me?" he says, looking up at the sky. "Why do I have to deal with these people?"

            "Coz you pay us," says accomplice #3 from where she's sitting in the shade reading a magazine.

"Not talking to you."

        "Who're you talkin' to? It's just us here."

"I'm talking to myself."

    "I think the sun's frying his brain."

            "Bold of you to assume he has a brain to be fried."

The one being called boss points a chonky double-barreled pistol at #3. "I'm going to shoot your tongue off."

            She sticks her tongue out to lick the tip of her thumb so she can turn the page of her magazine without looking up at the gun. "You're paying us to do a job for you. If you shoot us you don't get the job done. Basic client-employer relations, see."

"I am going to go pee," he says, groaning in frustration and resting his gun against his shoulder.

            "Go downwind, I don't wanna be smelling your pee all day long."

That evening Zash goes back to the same pub, wondering if John will be there again. He might in fact need his credit chit back eventually.

"You! Alphabet boy!" calls Hilda.

"Alphabet boy," he repeats, nearly choking on his spit.

"Did ya really give that useless lump your chit?"

    "Not lumpy," calls John from where he's resting his forehead on the table.

"Lent. I lent that useless lump my chit."

    "'M bein' bullied," he whines.

"Are ya very rich? Very dumb? Both?"

"Money's there to bring people joy. I wasn't using it so much, might as well give him some."

"He got lots of joy alright. Never had so much. Was passed out most of the afternoon."

    "Wazz not."

"It's seven PM."

    "Oh... guess I was..."

"Oh well, guess my purse needed lightening."

"...how are ya alive?"

    "Z makes friendzzzzz."

            "Wait, is that the answer?" wonders Gabriel from another table. "You're nice to people and they protect you?"

        "You're ignoring his gun again," says Hal.

"Speaking of," he says, then unholsters his gun and offers it to Hilda again.

"...keep it, alphabet boy. Ya need all the protection you can get.

"So what can I getcha?"

"Give me whatever he's having," he replies, hiking his thumb in John's direction.

"Really? That cheap shit? You're a weird rich dumb boy."

"Yes, really. I'm a smart rich dumb boy."

("Cheap shit", huh?)

"Can't figure ya out," she sighs.

"Thought you said you knew my type."