Burglars

I used to work for a bank, back when I lived in Tennessee and before I became a wildlife whore. I worked in the Teller Pool, which is like substitute tellers who go around to all the different banks when the regular tellers are on vacation, or the bank is short on people, or whatever. So I got to work at all of the 5/3's banks in Knoxville (the name of the bank was fifth thirds, not that I'm retarded and trying to say I worked at five thirds of the banks in Knoxville, I don't even know what that would mean).
There was a particular bank location that was known for two things: being incredibly busy and being robbed on multiple occasions. Needless to say, I was a bit tepid about working at this particular locale. I ended up being at this bank for a couple of months, because they were short on tellers. There would be lines snaking through the lobby and out the door into the parking lot on most afternoons, and we'd get so busy that I would have hundreds of thousands of dollars in my drawer, which is against policy, but was unavoidable. (I can't remember what the limit was on a drawer of a regular teller, I want to say like $10,000 or something, and I remember one day I had $360,000 and the head teller told me to just keep going, there was no time to sell cash to the vault). Turns out the head teller was a bit shady, but that's a story for another time.
One day I'm working my ass off and look around the lobby to notice 3 strange-looking (foreign? like Russian maybe)men huddled together over the table where deposit slips and pens and such things are located. I saw them take a deposit slip, turn it over (our slips were blank on the back side) and begin writing on it, still talking in hushed whispers. I watched them out of the corner of my eye with one finger on the alarm button, praying to myself that they wouldn't end up at my slot. All three men wore jackets and were, aside from the slightly foreign side, normal looking dudes.
They finish writing, the guy with the paper comes forward and the other two stay back, at the table, casually looking around the bank, eyes resting on tellers and our officer a bit long for my taste. Of course, the man with the paper comes to me. By now, he has folded and refolded the paper many times, and it is, as he pushes it towards me, about a 2 inch by 2 inch square. I look into his eyes and notice how nervous he is, sweat beading on his brow, eyes barely making contact with mine before changing focus to his shoes, his hands, the floor.
I unfold the paper, heart thudding in my chest, wondering how I will make it through this experience. On the paper is written
"I do not speak good English, I need $100 from account XXXXXX"