Genre Blender: Pick a genre from column A, a style from column B, and blend to create your own delightful concoction.
(Note: I don’t know if I did this quite right, but it was sure as heck fun to write!)
Why can’t you be simple and run according to plan?
Why won’t you let me push the wind out of the way for my fellow agent? Frank only needed a five second head start. Why must you choose to play out my bad habit of uprooting small to medium trees when I am exasperated? He really needed to keep his helmet intact for later. He also really needed to keep his teal strait-jacket clean… And breaking his nose on the frozen ground was just not very polite.
Surely after that you could have let our new flying-by-the-seat-of-our-pants plan go unhindered! But no; you had to encourage a flock of non-local birds (which I still can’t identify *confused frowny face*) to swarm around us and alert the Golderbedsfrents to our location.
At least you let me use my wind power like a battering ram against the newspaper gates successfully. But the frozen sand chunks were in poor taste. And you didn’t add enough sugar to the lemonade, AGAIN!!!.
Then Becky arrived and I thought surely the mission would get better with the three of us. But no; she had to drop the key to Frank’s strait-jacket into the bottomless pit beside Pit Bull Bridge. Although, using my uprooted trees and your frozen sand as baseballs and bats to attack the Golderbedsfrents, who were shooting at us with turtle-canons, was actually rather ingenious… Until you turned and started attacking us. *unimpressed face*
At least we reached our objective, The Candle of Gilligan. And we almost got all the way out successfully; if it weren’t for those steam-punk violinists who enchanted Becky and stole The Candle of Gilligan from Frank (who, if you recall is still in a strait-jacket) while my own frustration uprooted the largest tree yet onto 1) Frank, 2) myself, AND 3) the Golderbedsfrents fortress.
Well, I guess the fortress being destroyed was a good note. But Frank hates me now, the agency lost Becky to who-knows-where, and Jim-Bob-Larry-Tows (the boss) burnt me as an agent.
Ouch, assignment. That really cuts me to the core. *unimpressed face again*
Now I will go to ATLANTIS to live with my mermaid mother who still loves me. *stoic but sad face*
The only wind-pusher in the entire United States of America
P.S. Your lemonade still tastes bad. Even after I added extra sugar.
(Note two: NO copyright intended. NO offence intended.)
I just went almost all out crazy-fun-humor-stuff on this story.