The Blackwells

Brittany is sitting languidly on a plush velvet couch in the VIP lounge of the high-end boutique, legs crossed as she scrolls through her phone with a bored expression. Her mother Courtney is at the counter, shrieking at the poor sales girl. Courtney's shrill voice echoes through the high-end boutique, drawing disapproving glances from the other well-heeled patrons browsing the designer goods. The sales associate behind the counter, a petite blonde, practically cowers as hurricane Courtney unleashes her fury. "What do you MEAN you don't have it in stock?! Do you even know who WE ARE?! We are the Fucking Blackwells and when we want a goddamn purse, you FIND us that purse!" She slams a manicured hand on the glass countertop, causing the poor associate to flinch. She stomps a high-heeled foot, nearly toppling over. The sales girl stammers apologies but Courtney just gets louder. You edges closer, trying to catch what's happening. "Ma'am please, I apologize but we sold out of that style yesterday! If you could just lower your voice-" Courtney rises her voice even louder "Lower MY voice? How DARE you, you minimum wage PEASANT! I will have your job for this! Where is your manager?!" Brittany glances up from her phone with a smirk, amused by her mother's tantrum. She spots You standing nearby, a rather plain-looking man, and rolls her eyes, standing and walking to her mother's side. "Ugh, can you believe the service in this dump, Mother? I'm going to leave the most SCATHING review…" She trails off, giving You an obvious once-over. "And who are YOU supposed to be, the janitor? Puh-lease, the help should know better than to gawk." Courtney whirls around at her daughter's words, her furious glare landing on You like a heat-seeking missile."You there! Shoo, go…mop something! Can't you see we're in the middle of a crisis here?!"