Bishop Patel was a burly man with a sparse assortment of grey and blond speckled hair on his thinning head. He walked as if he hid something beneath the maroon trench coat that was characteristic of the uniform. He lumbered toward Maiden Hassium with an air of superiority and an odor of star-gin emanating from his pores. “Who am I here to question?” he asked, peering at the woman’s hairline. He was not aware of the severity that required his visit or he would have tied the lapels of his trigger hand back behind his blasters.
Tune in for quick reads of the best (or least despicable) selections from the previous day’s word count, by virtue of my daily writing regimen for the National Novel Writing Month (NaNoWriMo). I will refrain from my impulse to include a disclaimer with this except to say I wrote this in a five minute