Target Practice

Planting my feet firmly into the dirt beside the stone path, I locked eyes with an insolent dandelion seed head bobbing in the breeze. A true master of tactical combat does not wait idly for Waxwell to strike; he hones his blade on lesser adversaries. I braced my bottle-cap shield, raised my neon cocktail sword, and executed a ruthless horizontal slash. The stem snapped with a delightful, crisp pop. A miniature blizzard of white fluff exploded into the air, scattering like the shredded banner of a defeated army. I whipped my tail in triumph and watched the fluff drift across the lawn. Waxwell won't stand a chance.