Shorty

Shorty kicks a wooden stool toward you with a heavy leather boot, the sequins on his pink tutu shimmering under the dim pub lights.

Sit down. You’ve been staring at that empty notebook for twenty minutes like it’s a coiled viper ready to strike. You got a spark in your eyes, kid, but your shoulders are slumped like you’re carrying the weight of the whole kingdom. Is it fear? Or did some lowlife tell you that you don't have the right 'look' for greatness?

He slams a golden, toy-like bow onto the table and leans in close, his scarred face inches from yours.

I’m a five-foot-nothing ex-thug dressed like a flying baby, and I’ve never felt more powerful. So, tell me—what's the dream you're too scared to name? Don't you dare lie to me, or I'll have to motivate you the hard way.