[center][i]I'm down-- cest la vie.
Drowning.

This document is soaked, 
Not green for the broke, 
Or rather, throwaway for baroque.
Those that should go and choke.

A non-amphibian Croak.
Drown--à la mort.[/i][/center][hr]

Ede's pen fell as she wrote the last line of her newest creation. Her cheek rested upon her hand whilst a sigh escaped her ever so slightly parted lips. What had inspired this bout of creativity, she wondered? She had felt a sudden pang… inspiration coming on like a heart attack, so to speak-- and there it was.

The cloy, sexually-repressed chancer absentmindedly observed the citizens of Probity that milled about the eatery-- her eatery, as it was, the BB Bistro-- a popular haven for all aspects of life in their small town to mesh into one, over…. Some type of dish. In all honesty, Ede wasn’t really sure what they made here. Blanche, her last name, was French, or something… and Basque was… Spain/France or something… but the staff just kind of… did their own thing? Sometimes Ede just changed the menus, just to mess with people-- other times she’d eat something random from the menu, hate it, and have the chefs and sous chefs completely redo everything, mid lunch rush some days. Ede Blanche loved her job.

Residents of note in her fine patisserie-- that was it! She snapped her fingers as the realization washed over her. That was why the place smelled different today! She’d come in last night, high out of her mind, and converted the entire restaurant into a British-styled patisserie-- a word, that before her trip last night, she was uncertain was even [i]in[/i] her vocabulary. Apparently, as evidence by the sweet smell that hung in the air, her little worker bees had dutifully committed to her spur of the moment decision, and the place was alive with cakes, pies, and pastries of all types-- so long as they were British. She supposed that made the Blanche Basque Bistro the Blanche British Bistro, for today. Like a cat playing with caught prey, Ede played with a puff pastry that she’d gotten some time before working on her poem, and frowned. 

She hated baked goods! They were overrated as far as she was concerned. Ice cream was the perfect counterpoint when concerning savory dishes. And everyone knew stovetop is how true bohemians enjoyed meals. Clearly. Cakes were the mush of the conformist, no thank you! 

Stabbing her pastry with the tiny fork, she yelled to the back, “I want this place serving dishes that scream non-conformity! I’ll have nothing so weak that it requires the womb-like embrace of an oven served in [i]my[/i] family’s establishment!” She nodded, assuring herself of the split-second decision, “Italian is the cuisine of the cosmopolitan! Only the best for [i]my[/i] customers!” She gave a wry smirk. 

Customers were never an issue for Ede-- Probity wasn’t a town of much substance, so of course they’d flock to her establishment-- she was probably the closest thing to an artist the hell-hole had spawned in decades. “Of course, this means our remaining stock is now half off!” Applause from the consumers. Most of them, anyway-- a few higher profile individuals simply went about their morning routines, one of particular interest to Ede was the sheriff, a man of, to her eyes, anyway-- hidden depth. He was one interesting case. Another was Dwight Kelly. 

Closing her tome of poetry and short stories, Ede made her way over to the man. As she found him, he was alone in a brown leather booth, with the paper and coffee darker than the secrets shared between the two of them. She plopped herself down across from the man.

“Morning D.D.!”