Tina was pissed off. She was pissed at the wind. The wind was blowing the corners of her target up off of the cardboard backing it was stapled to. She had to focus not to be distracted by the constant flapping.

She was pissed off how the wind carried the pungent stench of the pair of hill-jacks four booths down into her personal space.

She was pissed off that those un-showered little bitches wouldn’t stop crying about the wind pushing their rounds off target. As if they were shooting from 1,000 yards instead of 10.

She was pissed at the rude comments they made about Tinas clothes and her body that were carried to her ears by the wind.

“Wait,” Tina thought. “Maybe it’s not the wind that I’m pissed at.”

Tina inhaled to confirm her theory. Sure enough, it was not the wind that she was pissed at. And she smiled because there isn’t much an angry bitch can do about the wind.

“Hey fellas. Can one of you show me how I’m supposed to grip this big gun.”

But theres plenty she can do about a pair of disgusting morons on her range.