Retro

Nineteen eighty-five called from a payphone outside the Del Amo mall and it wants its aesthetic back. Retro is Sonny Crockett in devil form — teal blazer sleeves shoved to the elbow, coral tee underneath, no socks, red horns, a smirk that says the Testarossa is double-parked and the meter is somebody else's problem. Split-panel coral and teal, drippy graffiti bleeding down the top like a Trapper Keeper someone actually respected. This is the bag Crockett throws before the raid.

Five-nine hybrid, which means you get to pick your century every frame. The slick side runs a sunset-cruise slide down the boards clean as a saxophone solo. Flip it to the red carpet back and the thing STOPS — grabs like Ferrari brakes, hangs a roll where you park it, blocks a hole and dares them to move it. Airbrush a runner. Slam a stop. Same bag, opposite personalities, both cocky.

Grab four before some pastel-neon lieutenant confiscates them for evidence.