Let’s Dig in Right Now… Dann.

So since I’m feeling particularly inspired at 2:45am in my room with a pot of coffee: there’s no time like the present!

Description: Odd, short, and seriously concerning to read vignette about an assistant, a sniper, a flower shop and QUITE a lot of sass.

Fogged up glasses. Her glasses had hints of perspiration, but it wasn’t hot or cold. And there wasn’t a hot mug or warm drink in her hands. How odd. There was a subtle hint of roses in the air, but then again, working in a flower shop- what could you expect. The assistant, her name isn’t all that important, rose to her feet and wiped her glasses off, but strangely enough, the water wouldn’t come off.

She did try. Don’t make fun. There was pushes (shoves too, don’t forget that), and a healthy dose of frustration to fuel her attempt, but when all was said and done, you know what was left? An extremely frustrated girl and a fogged up pair of glasses.

Oh did I mention they were sunglasses? Probably not. I think I forgot that. Sorry. So it wasn’t a crazy big mess, just a pair of odd glasses that the assistant didn’t even bother to look at twice before she threw them away (5 dollar pair from Target, what do you expect, really). Although, she really should have. Missed the small hints that the glasses might crack. Missed the sniper huff in disappointment and pack away his gun (tracking beacon on those glasses, she should really learn to check that more).

Sniper. Right. Didn’t mention the girl was the daughter of multi-millionaire Eldridge Parker, the inventor of the teleporter. We are living in the year 2088, if you didn’t remember. But with those memory wipers that the government actually has now (seriously, Men in Black is closer to reality than you know), you don’t ever trust your own mind these days.

Anyways, back to the assistant. No, she really doesn’t warrant enough importance to be given a name. I mean, an assistant to a flower shop manager, what kind of business is run here…. really. On the other hand, there’s a sniper.

Questions, questions. The assistant has some questions too: probably about the glasses. Probably about the fact she hasn’t gotten a pay raise in the past 10 years (she thinks sitting at a front desk doing nothing when no customers ever come in warrants a raise). But no time like the present, she takes the big and prominent steps towards the manager’s office. You’d be surprised to note he does get a name: Henry.

Sweet, Dependable, Solid, and Sturdy Henry. He’s one of those Scots that will last you through the storm. His assistant doesn’t really see him that way, but then again, what assistant really acts that way. She bursts into his office like a raging firestorm, her hair flying around her in a rare show of static and her eyes flashing with fury.

Was that a bit much?

I think it might have been a bit too much.

How about, ahem: She burst into the office, waves of frustration and fury rolling off of her. Turning left and right, desperately looking for Henry, someone, anyone, to release her anger upon, imagine her surprise: no one there. An empty desk and a note saying: Promotion Time new Manager!

And that’s when the snipers bullet hits true: because irony loves timing and a flower shop without a manager is almost as chaotic as a country without a president.

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