Paris would love it if she was late. If there was one thing the General despised it was tardiness, and Lieutenant Paris would no doubt already be there right now, sitting in the waiting room, back straight.
"Where the damn hell are my keys?" She began to tear at the cushions of the sofa.
Overhead, the latest squadron of planes roared, having left the runway a few hundred yards away. "Safe journey," she said, "bomb the fuck out of them."
Under the final sofa cushion were her keys. "Finally!"
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