Julian and Drew, self-proclaimed outlaws, aimed to empty the diner's cash register, an odd pursuit for a pair of unemployed accountants.
"Your shoelace," Julian noted. His tone was plain, as if discussing the weather, not an impending misdemeanor.
Drew rolled his eyes. "That's not my focus, Julian. Stick to the plan."
The duo sauntered, a nervous energy encasing them. Drew, with an untied shoelace and unbounded enthusiasm, stepped forward, tripped, and pirouetted, performing an unexpected floor-kiss. A symphony of ceramic clatter echoed.
Spectators gasped, coffees froze mid-air, toast in limbo between plate and mouth.
In the hushed mayhem, Julian, flustered but determined, thrust a hand into his coat, proclaiming, "Everyone put your fucking hands up!"
Everyone froze, except an old man in the corner, laughing into his pancakes, syrup dribbling from his whiskers. "You gotta be kidding me." he chuckled.
The duo stared, bewildered. Laughter?
Julian approached the old man, gun in hand and calmly demanded, "Give me your fucking wallet.”
“I haven’t paid yet.” The old man pulls out his wallet, takes out a twenty and lays it on the table before handing the wallet to Julian. “That’s not for you, it's a tip for the waitress.”
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