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Just something I wrote
That Fox is DANGER

Chapter one: Meet Brenda, and she’s dangerous!

Rule one, in the Book of Brenda, never trust anyone but thyself, oh sure, pretend, but do just that, PRETEND. Never get attached, and never let anyone get the upper hand for long. Well, that disappeared the minute someone had tried to kill her, charged at her on a motorcycle, shooting rather badly, before they had crashed into a nearby trashcan. And so, although she had told them she was perfectly fine, they decided she needed a bodyguard. That’s where Darroth came in. Darroth the robust, Darroth from the north, Darroth the freaking-huge white wolverine who wielded a hammer, the brute was probably her worst nightmare. To her, the stylish and sophisticated, dark grey fox Brenda, he was like night to day, or nuts to apples, or, how about her (now broken) fist to his (relatively unharmed) face.
She now regarded her new and unwanted luggage balefully from across her limo. His big frame was slightly hunched, and he, she realized, was studying her, too.
“Take a picture, it’ll last longer.” She snapped, and he looked up, vaguely surprised at her outburst. She held out her hand, the hurt one, now covered in bandages, “Don’t look so innocent,” She snarled, “You’ll be out of here in no time.” He shrugged, and turned his gaze to out the tinted window, which meant it looked like dusk a lot.

That Fox is DANGER

Chapter one: Meet Brenda, and she’s dangerous!

Rule one, in the Book of Brenda, never trust anyone but thyself, oh sure, pretend, but do just that, PRETEND. Never get attached, and never let anyone get the upper hand for long. Well, that disappeared the minute someone had tried to kill her, charged at her on a motorcycle, shooting rather badly, before they had crashed into a nearby trashcan. And so, although she had told them she was perfectly fine, they decided she needed a bodyguard. That’s where Darroth came in. Darroth the robust, Darroth from the north, Darroth the freaking-huge white wolverine who wielded a hammer, the brute was probably her worst nightmare. To her, the stylish and sophisticated, dark grey fox Brenda, he was like night to day, or nuts to apples, or, how about her (now broken) fist to his (relatively unharmed) face.
She now regarded her new and unwanted luggage balefully from across her limo. His big frame was slightly hunched, and he, she realized, was studying her, too.
“Take a picture, it’ll last longer.” She snapped, and he looked up, vaguely surprised at her outburst. She held out her hand, the hurt one, now covered in bandages, “Don’t look so innocent,” She snarled, “You’ll be out of here in no time.” He shrugged, and turned his gaze to out the tinted window, which meant it looked like dusk a lot.