Minnie Mouse was done, as in she was absolutely fed up with this shit, all this shit. It is fortunate that she was unarmed, otherwise, she’d be surrounded by freshly shot corpses.
Her eyes were bloodshot. The thick veins obscured her pupils. You would think this is why she avoided sunlight, but the real reason was, it made her look eight to nine years older. She was fully conscious of how her flaring nostrils revealed a murder of crows’ feet around her eyes. Vanity has its price.
She was obvious. She wore her anger on her sleeve, as well as in her shoes. She stomped about as if she were whacking moles, which created a most erratic gait with lots of awkward leg spreads.
She was stuck in a horrible contract. She made enough money to be in ridiculous debt, yet not enough to hire a convincing double to take her place. She was a glorified slave to Disney. She had turned over all her control to a heartless corporation. Her life was not her own. Suicide was not even an option due to the science of animation. She hated her lot.
She stood in front of the tattoo removal place for long minutes before entering. She was not looking forward to having her tramp stamp removed.