Brother Pratique dropped with helium balloon weight from a tunnel above. The monk had the look of Play Dough that’s been rolled between the hands for too long, and an exquisitely trimmed goatee that neatly matched his proper but enthused disposition. “I am thrilled you ‘ave chozen to subject yourself to the art that is lock picking,” he said with a bow. “Excusez-moi— I will be back in two jiffys.”
