I strolled along the cracked pavement, my uncontrollable afro hair bouncing in time to the slap of my tattered flip-flops. I wore a faded denim mini skirt and an orange tank top. Simple. Nothing to stand out or draw unwanted attention to myself while I was working. I snorted, working, that's one word for it. Stepping into a shop entrance, I pretended to search my wicker tote bag while surveying the crowd for a potential mark. I called them marks; but really they were unsuspecting citizens of the City of New Orleans about to part with their cash. Involuntarily. I spied one, a classic southern rich-bitch; whining down her phone, with too much money and attitude and not enough common sense or manners. I smiled; this would be fun. Leaving the shade of my doorway, I stepped back into the crowd and headed towards her. I bumped into her, causing her to drop her phone and shopping bags; their contents spilling over the street. She was too busy yelling at me that she wouldn't notice until much later that her crocodile skin wallet had mysteriously disappeared from her Gucci handbag. As I walked away from her I glanced into my bag and smiled. Five wallets and I hadn't even stopped for lunch. Today was going to be a good day.
Don't get me wrong, I know stealing is bad– and I certainly wouldn't recommend pick-pocketing as a fulfilling career. But a girl has to eat, right?
"Hey Jules." It was dusk as I stepped into the bar; it smelt like Cajun spices, cigarette smoke and whisky. It smelt like home. Jules was the owner of said bar. He was a good-natured Frenchman with thick bands of muscles, sparkling eyes and yellowed teeth. He was also the closest thing I had to family. Sad when you think about it.
"Bonsoir petite, how was your day?" He slid a glass of orange juice over the counter and gave me a crooked grin as I hopped onto a bar stool.
"Productive. Got any food?"
"Deux packets of crisps and some pot-noodles."
"That's pathetic."
"Hey little missy, this ain't non restaurant, you want grub, you go round back 'n make yourself some."
"Fine. Fancy passing me some of that Jack Daniels?" Jules slapped my hand away as I reached for the bottle. "Non, don't tu dare. I ain't serving non 13 year old fille alcohol." I rolled my eyes at him and headed to the back room to make myself some jambalaya. The bar was beginning to fill anyway, and Jules worried about me being in a room full of rowdy drinkers, usually fighting over lost poker games or a pool bet. Not like I couldn't handle myself – being a class 4 mutant certainly had its perks.