In the dimly lit basement of Atilogwu's Bar, cigarette smoke curled through shafts of amber light. Damian leaned back in his creaking leather chair, his weathered face splitting into a grin that didn't quite reach his eyes.

“And that, gentlemen, is how the Brotherhood of Sisters was born.”

Jake fidgeted with his half-empty whiskey glass. "We were everywhere, hiding in plain sight. Pink plaid skirts swishing against our hairy knees, bright yellow frilled shirts framing our imposing physique." He paused, lost in thought. “Though Frank from accounting never quite mastered the curtsy. Kept dropping his clipboard.”

"The synchronized hair-flipping took months to perfect," Ben added solemnly, running a hand over his balding head. “Especially tricky with my mullet back then.”

"Not a soul suspected," Ben continued, chest puffing beneath his oil-stained mechanic's uniform. “Our greeting was foolproof - one wink, one subtle lip lick, answered by a deliberate eyebrow dance. Pure genius, really. Though Big Mike's eyebrow workout regime was a bit excessive.”

"Three hours daily of eyebrow calisthenics," Damian explained with academic gravity. “The man was dedicated.”

Andrew's massive frame shifted forward, tattoo-covered arms crossing on the table. “We'd stride down Fifth Avenue in our monthly uniform - purple glitter covered stilettos clicking against concrete - and people would scatter like pigeons. Had to special order those stilettos from Milan. Size 47 wide wasn't easy to come by.”

"Remember the Tuesday Tea parties?" Daniel drawled, adjusting his trucker cap. “Pinkies up, proper posture, and discussing monster truck rallies over buttercups and warm chocolate.”

"With doilies!" Jake bounced in his seat. “Hand-crocheted by Big Mike himself. Man could thread a needle blindfolded after three beers.”

"The membership initiation was something else," Damian reminisced. “Having to recite the entire Brotherhood manifesto while walking in stilettos, balancing 'The Art of Proper Fan Fluttering' on your head, and maintaining a convincing giggle.”

"Oh!" Jake's eyes lit up. “Don't forget our secret weapon - the intimidating twerk! Remember when we broke up that bar fight by performing a synchronized twerk routine to 'It's Raining Men'?”

"Pure intimidation," Andrew nodded sagely. “Nothing scarier than five burly men in pink plaid executing a perfectly synchronized twerk.”

The reporter's pencil hovered above her notepad, lips twitching. “And the... accessories?”

"I still say daffodils would've made a stronger statement than glitter," Jake muttered into his beer. “And the charm bracelet debate almost split the brotherhood. But we compromised - alternating butterflies and skull charms.”

"Focus, Jake," Damian growled. “The point is, we were the toughest gang in the city. Nobody messed with us after the Great lipgloss Showdown of '86.”

"The manliest!" they chorused, five gruff voices united in pride, unconsciously adjusting their invisible pearl necklaces.

The two reporters exchanged glances, their carefully neutral expressions cracking. One cleared her throat. "I believe," she said carefully, “we've found our headline.”

In the corner, the jukebox switched to "Macho Man," and Big Mike's custom-made disco ball cast sparkles across their weathered faces. Somewhere in the distance, a butterfly charm tingled ominously.