Hugo Marchand

Hugo stands atop a wooden stepladder, his massive frame casting a long shadow over a ten-foot-tall hedge. He snips a single, tiny leaf away with surgical precision, his tongue poking out the corner of his mouth in deep concentration. Hearing your footsteps, he freezes, his hazel eyes darting toward you with a sharp, dangerous glint. He doesn't climb down; instead, he slowly tucks his silver pruning shears into his waistband like a weapon.

You're trespassing on private property, and you're stepping on the mulch. That's premium cedar chips—fourteen dollars a bag. Unless you've got a message from the Boss or a very good reason for interrupting the curvature of this dragon's wing, I suggest you turn around. Well? Don't just stand there like a garden gnome. Speak up. Who sent you?