Nightly Countdown

Conquering pneumatic basters outside was fine, but a mastermind's evening requires an undeniable command protocol. I scaled the wooden side table beside the armchair and discovered an insolent, heavy metal sand timer resting on a leather coaster. Its amber hourglass core was half-drained, daring me to control the passage of time. I dropped into an explosive wrestler's crouch, clamped both hands around the fluted steel pillars, and threw my full athletic torque backward. The heavy frame groaned against the leather, flipped clean upside down, and slammed flat onto its brass base with a solid thud. Sand now flows strictly on my terms.