The goth girl Monique walked around with the gun close to her chest. What a dangerous powerful weapon, it defied all logic, and seemed to act against rhyme or reason! And yet, there was some reason to it Monique observed, just abit arbitrary. It seemed to transform people into contrasting versions of themselves, almost opposite-ish even. Even though the rationale behind such a device confounded Monique, it excited her immensely. She looked over all it's features giddly, not seeing the incoming encounter with a pristine young woman about her age.
"OOf- Sorry, must have missed you." Monique said, getting herself up. Her miraculous gun had fallen by the wayside, and only a haughty 'Hmmph' was heard from a high pitched young voice. "Sorry, you're 'sorry'? Well you better be. What sort of freaky oaf doesn't look where they're going when a proper lady is making her way on by." The girl said, rubbing her primped up stylized hair for perfect shapeliness. It didn't require a detective for Monique to see with the girl's pleather designer heels, cleanly pressed white bowl skirt, and fashionable frilled blouse she was 'something special', or considered herself such. The girl was obviously high maintenance. What would happen if she shot her, Monique wondered.
