RIP Lauren Harlow aka "Viscous celery"

Quick as a whip we hopped in our car and flew with the gods at our back to her house. We waited, in a manner most badass. Yet my companion pointed out waves of heat radiating from one of her horse-less carriages. Could she have beaten us here? 'Twas not possible. Apparently, 'twas. Upon further inspection, a Hopkins tag waved hauntingly from the mirror. Though no set back is too much for Распутин! We called. She answered. Time passed. She emerged dawning an only umbrella as a shield and a pistol I've seen a hundred times in the hands of men I've killed. My cohort, a sexy male individual with eyes that could disrobe any vixen from 100 yards, met with her in my stead. She agreed to the parameters and we set up. Though she misdirected her suspicion. Naturally, she was lost in the eyes of my partner and failed to see my blade, a perfect piece of cutlery forged in the heart of the cafeteria from the finest plastic. I stabbed. She screamed, and as she fell to the ground, released a curse in her native tongue "Fuck you!" It was then she begged at my feet, pleading to be depicted as brave. "Nay!" I said. Bravery is for those fearless enough to ride without the aid of an umbrella. As the life fled her body she choked, in a common white girl fashion, the cry of her people, "Help. I literally can't even." She shuddered. Her body laid lifeless as we turned towards our carriage. I smiled as We drove away, my dashing side kick laughing heartily in the side-car.