The Intimidation Audit

I rode the canvas tote straight home from the park and scrambled up the dresser drawer handles to conduct a mandatory audit of my intimidation factor. Perched beside a heavy cologne bottle was a chrome swivel mirror, tilted lazily toward the ceiling. Unacceptable. I planted both white boots against the polished mahogany, grabbed the lower metal rim with both hands, and threw my weight backward. The stiff hinge groaned and swung down until my scowl filled the glass under the amber lamp. I squared my shoulders, held an unbroken championship glare for ninety seconds, and gave myself a grim nod. Summerville’s sovereign ruler is looking lethally sharp.