Write a four line poem about: the complication.
Or, if you're joining us on our Secret Agent theme week journey, write some more. You can include a four line poem if you're able to (I wasn't).
I was rather disappointed with the craft fair today. Better location, more vendors, more foot traffic landed on the plus side of the equation. Freezing rain in the morning, more competition for dollars from better quality vendors, and fewer sales than last week on the minus.
The end result was okay, but I was hoping for better. I did sell another framed print though, so that helped. Not sure what my next steps might be at this point, but I've got time to figure that out.
Mrs. Rose Desmarais had spent the entirety of her morning studying financial reports - most of them legitimate, others less so - and now that lunch hour had arrived (twenty minutes ago) she was more than ready for a break.
Needless to say, she is not pleased to find a stranger - no matter the cost of his suit - entering her office.
"What. The. Hell." As mentioned, it had been a very long morning.
"And a fan-damned-tastic day to you too!" Pine calls out, twirling a pen in each hand as he approaches. His tie is no longer around his neck, having been used to secure the door knob to a nearby filing cabinet. His Texan accent is gone as well, with no audience present who he intends to leave alive.
"What do you think you're doing?" she demands as the distance between them shrinks faster than the marketing department's budget.
"I don't think," Pine replies with the barest suggestion of a smile. "I know."
He levels both pens at Rose's face as he leans across her desk. He clicks first the left, then the right to unleash a highly toxic combination. The left pen sprays its payload with a venomous hiss.
The right pen does nothing.