There are three men standing at the intersection of a sewer. One of them is very lean and very tall. In fact he looks too tall and seems to sway on his feet, as if ready to topple at the whim of a strong gust. He grips a burlap sack in his left hand. The tall man has provided the firepower.
Next to him is a greasy mustache. The mustache belongs to a stocky Mediterranean-looking fellow with shifty eyes. He digs into his backpack with concerned intent. The mustached man has provided the intelligence and the tools.
Standing apart from the first two men is the clown. Wrinkled columns of green-yellow-blue, green-yellow-blue support an ashen face of sweat and paint. He wears a white clown glove on each hand. Thick locks of crimson explode from his head, aggravating the sweat. His face is on the verge of melting. The clown has provided the distraction, but he does not look happy.
The three men face a brick wall with a hole in the center. It is less a hole than a black gaping chasm, maybe a couple feet wide and stretching to infinity. Mustache maintains that this will lead them directly beneath the bank.