The Quick Heist

Bjork slid the mask to his chin once his partner signaled the security cameras were disabled.

“You’re sure this is right place? I don’t see a bank sign,” he said.

“Yes, it’s a private depository for the elite. They’re too good to merge their lifesavings with commoners. When we open the vault we will get a taste of how the rich live, I promise.”

“That’s if you crack the combination before the sun rises. Be quick about it, Bronte, or we’re going to be like Uncle Lamm’s gang in the botched 1930 bank heist, surrounded by cops.”

“Save the history lesson for your college night class, professor,” Bronte said as his stomach rumbled, lacking sustenance for days.

Ten minutes later the tumblers clicked into place, air escaped with a hiss, and the vault door swung open.

Awestruck by the sight, they rushed to the bagged claret treasure. Speechless, beyond a low growl raging in their throats, their hypodermic fangs pierced the blood bags and sucked the velvety nutrients like two kids consuming Nestle Quick milk.

Sanguine droplets dripped off their chins as they grinned, and shouted their motto together.

“Rich and thick, you can’t drink it slow if it’s quick.”