I walked out. The audio-feed from the newscast muted the roaring music and humanity of the club. I navigated the crowd, the pale red-haired reporter fixed on the center of my right-eye vision. I closed my eye to put her against a black background so I could better navigate the club.

“It appears as though the situation has become worse. The criminals have taken control of the diner that I’m on top of. NOW News, we’re on top of what you want to know!” Stupid bitch.

The camera’s vantage changed, shifting to an overhead view from a VTOL circling the site. The gunfire had stopped after a trio of bullet-ridden bodies stumbled out and collapsed on the pavement. Two women, one child.

“Breida, it looks like we have a hostage situation,” came a male voice over the newscast. I pushed out of the club, into the night-time neon of New Orleans.

Benny, you need to be there.

Where?

There. Get the bag, get out, bring it in. Big money.

Knockers all over. Buy me a good funeral. On my way.