Rush hour swarmed under a winter sky that threatened tempestuous combustion. Hilary and her snub-nosed-gun were the only ones who noticed. Sinister melodies surfed the gusts, rattling along the tracks. The trains huffed and spat. The platform heaved and swarmed with a feverous undulating swelter. Hilary feared the crowded platform could become a smelter, that would surely melt her.
A harrowing hawk stalking a scrawny swallow, squawked as it swooped across the station of agitation. A bustling flat-faced man who look like the dish that ran away with the spoon, gawked at the hawk, and knocked Hilary off her footing. He smelled rather off-putting. In the heat Hilary swooned. The snub-nosed-gun jabbed and bruised her leg. It’s trigger nearly popped.
A busker sang folk-rock. He struck his guitar like a zealous foe, riling up the flock. None of the trains would stop. The mob were miffed. She best be swift. It was time she did what she came to do. But the sky was no longer blue. The blackened clouds cracked and blew matching the mood of the brooding horde.
Hilary fondled her snub-nosed-gun, it was getting warm. ‘Goodness gracious me, my water-pistol is no match for a cranky storm!’