The bomb disintegrates the glass wall of the bank in the musical disharmony of a thousand xylophones in a trash compactor. The concussion throws me and the few others who were standing in line to the ground. My mouth serves up a single whispered word: “terrorists”. I scan the area for bearded, turbaned men before I remember to feel guilty.
The plump woman beside me wears a dress cut too low for her. I wonder how I have time to notice her clothes. She points at the masked and spandexed figures entering the bank and whispers:
“Not terrorists. Worse. Villains.”