By: Andrew Dahl
The sky was grey and shitty and Porter had a good sulk going. He threw a pebble out into the marsh—hoping the act would look vengeful, powerful—but his balky shoulder twinged and he winced and danced around like a strange clown instead. He tried to compose a witty riposte to his boss, Ed Stefan, in his head but kept getting stuck on the salutation. Dear Mr.—no, too formal. Listen here—no, too old-timey. In all my years—still too old-timey. He grimaced and did a little shimmy of anger. The gulls in the marsh regarded him with what looked, to Porter, like disdain.