Post by Capt. Reacher on Jun 25, 2012 18:03:06 GMT -5
Reacher finds that being in the Army can be particularly annoying at times. The woman had been called from the comfort of her home, and for once, the phone call hadn't been a set of orders. Rather, a favor-- a favor to someone that she owed greatly. Grumbling and leaving rather begrudgingly, Reacher had been sent to a base out of state to check out the new dogs they'd gotten and to help with selection and where to send them. Most people were under the false assumption that all of these things were already organized with something as structured as the Army-- but that thought would prove to be false. Often times, whatever big cheese decided to send them dogs, left the organizing job to whoever was unfortunate enough to get the paperwork first.
And after taking care of all of that nonsense, Reacher is on her way home, and decides offhandedly to pick up a few things from the supermarket before returning home to her giant fluffy shepherd who was undoubtedly waiting for her. The MP walks into the store, stern-faced with an obvious tiredness in her eyes-- still wearing her ACUs and combat boots. The were grabs a cart and gets a few of the necessities that she can't live without in her house. One of them being pickles. She has basically everything she could need (which isn't much, living alone with a dog and whatnot,) but she stops at the long line of options.
There's quite possibly a friggin thousand different brands, different slicing and different sized jars and different sized pickles and the brute of a woman feels a childish helplessness in her inability to pick which one. She has no preference of one type of pickle over the other-- so maybe it should be easy for her to just pick a random jar and leave, but she can't. Pickles are never that easy. Pickles are hard to choose. These things need to be precise and carefully chosen. She frowns at the pickles.
Frowns at those pickles long and hard.
Damn you, pickles.
And after taking care of all of that nonsense, Reacher is on her way home, and decides offhandedly to pick up a few things from the supermarket before returning home to her giant fluffy shepherd who was undoubtedly waiting for her. The MP walks into the store, stern-faced with an obvious tiredness in her eyes-- still wearing her ACUs and combat boots. The were grabs a cart and gets a few of the necessities that she can't live without in her house. One of them being pickles. She has basically everything she could need (which isn't much, living alone with a dog and whatnot,) but she stops at the long line of options.
There's quite possibly a friggin thousand different brands, different slicing and different sized jars and different sized pickles and the brute of a woman feels a childish helplessness in her inability to pick which one. She has no preference of one type of pickle over the other-- so maybe it should be easy for her to just pick a random jar and leave, but she can't. Pickles are never that easy. Pickles are hard to choose. These things need to be precise and carefully chosen. She frowns at the pickles.
Frowns at those pickles long and hard.
Damn you, pickles.
