Ill-gotten goods

A brick crashed through his storefront for the third time this month. Finn was growing tired of cleaning up the broken glass, and his bank account was growing weary of replacing it. Whoever was doing it had grown more brazen, stolen more items, and this time, was holding him at knifepoint.

A grumbling voice barked through a dark balaclava, “All the bills. The hundreds, the twenties, the fuckin’ singles. Everything in the bag, now.”

“You sure about that?” a cocky voice sprang up from where the front door once had been. Followed by the cocking of a gun. “Because I don’t think they take cash where you’re going.”

Finn glanced over to see two men in tracksuits wielding nine millimeters and a smaller man in a glossy midnight blue suit smoking a cigar.

The robber clutched his ill-gotten goods.

“Whoever told you I ask twice must really not like you, kid,” the well-dressed man continued.

The criminal emptied his hands and attempted to leave unscathed. A right hook sent him to the ground, and a barrage of white Balenciagas kicked him until all he could do was crawl away.

“The neighborhood ain’t what it used to be,” the man said. “There was a time when a guy like you could do business without protection. But now—” he took two thousand dollars from the abandoned moneybag. “—it’s an essential service. Needed every week.”

Finn noticed that all the men had matching pinky rings...including the thief.

And promptly surrendered to his rescuers.