[center][h3][u][color=chocolate]Blake Mitchell[/color][/u][/h3]

There's an old adage that sates 'a watched pot never boils' and though she couldn't exactly prove that to be untrue, it seemed quite like a load of junk. For proof, Blake had to look no further than the little tray in the microwave currently spinning around with a flimsily wrapped package in the center, slowly rising from the heat beaming down onto it. A watched pot might not have boiled, but a watched microwave faithfully carried out its duties without question. Though of course, as her dark brown eyes stared into the doorway, the hum of the heat lamps and internal wiring drowning out the muzak that was piped to every gas station and convenience store (or so it seemed, as every place that dealt in gas, papers, booze, or big gulps all seemed to play the same songs), Blake wondered if the day's breakfast would cook faster if she wasn't looking. Schrodinger's Breakfast Burrito. 

After getting ready in the comfort and cacophony of her home, Blake checked the fridge for anything that could be prepared in five minutes or less with the world's greatest invention, but to her dismay the only thing contained in her fridge was a half pound of grocery store deli ham (Felicia had grown tired of peanut butter and jelly every day), various condiments, and a half eaten chicken fettuccine from Sunday. The rule with leftovers was that the only good leftover was pizza, everything else just didn't taste right after being re-heated. Plus, fettuccine was a terrible breakfast choice anyway because it was doubtful a dish from some faux-fancy Italian place (how fancy could they be if they did take out?) would be ready to eat after five minutes in the nuke tray. 

Alas. Breakfast, it seemed, would come from outside the house. 

After ensuring her prized stereo system was shut off fully and that the door was locked as she left, Blake unlocked the driver's door on her red Toyota Camry, the perfect vehicle for the discerning single mother and private investigator; it came fully stocked with grey interior seats, satellite radio AND a CD player, and cup holders that could even fit a large soda from a fast food joint. But the real treat was the 'not exactly fully street legal' police scanner that Blake had installed and always had running whenever she was driving. It helped to stay on top of things in the world of law enforcement since she was sort of a splinter from that world anyway. 

That morning, [url=https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Dn8-4tjPxD8]serenaded by Stevie Nicks[/url], complete with a duet from Blake as she tapped her fingers on the steering wheel,  Blake drove to a convenience store whereupon she found a breakfast burrito, popped it into the microwave meant for just that purpose, and watched with as watchful an eye as she could. Three minutes seemed to take much longer when you really wanted something. 

[color=chocolate] "You can ring me up for the coffee, too,"[/color] Blake called to the unfortunate soul who pulled the morning (or maybe late night, it was hard to tell) shift as she raised the cup of bland, cheap coffee towards the register. She had already taken a considerable number of sips without paying, but if children could get away with sipping their slushies before the parents paid...then Blake saw no reason why she couldn't do the same with her coffee. [color=chocolate] "Bout time..."[/color] Blake's statement blended with the sounds of the microwave 'dinging' its finished chime. No time was wasted as Blake opened, grabbed, unwrapped, and took a bite of the breakfast burrito. The price was settled with a fiver and she was back out onto the sidewalk with what was sure to be part of no one's balanced breakfast. 

Blake stood outside her car, setting the coffee cup on the roof, and proceeded to take bites of her burrito. The window was lowered and the police scanner was going, but it was quiet. It was morning, of course it was quiet. 

[color=chocolate] "Yeah, hi, I'm calling to see about putting an ad in the paper,"[/color] Blake had whipped out her cell phone and, through a mouthful of processed eggs, peppers, and bacon, was connected to a friendly voice on the other end. [color=chocolate]"Is there any chance it can go out in today's...you don't do a late edition? Well, I just...doesn't have to be big. Okay, I want it to say 'Assistant Wanted. Must Have Flexible Schedule and Cannot Be Older Than Twenty Eight. Typing Abilities A Plus. And then my contact number. Great, thank you."[/color] 

Blake had a set of rules and one of the most important ones was that her assistant could not be older than she was. It helped to establish who was in charge, some of the older sorts liked to think they had seniority just because they were seniors. Plus some student or young person looking for a paycheck for what was likely a very low key position was preferable. 

[color=silver] "962 on the corner of Third and Elm. Repeat...962..."[/color] 

The static radio of her police scanner snapped Blake back to attention just in time for her to finish wolfing down her breakfast. [color=chocolate] "Bit early for an armed suspect, isn't it? Can't hurt to take a look."[/color] Blake was back behind the wheel with no hesitation. As she pulled out of the lot, her coffee fell to the street with an audible splash. But Blake didn't seem to care; she was far more interested in parking her car near enough to the limo from the report. One never knew when anonymous photos of a crime scene could come in handy, and Blake always had her camera at hand. [color=chocolate] "So much for a slow day..."[/color][/center]