Sasha strutted her way around the community center in high heels, a trendy overpriced handbag dangling from her forearm.
“My God, this place…” the high-end party planner complained. “Have we no other options?”
Her assistant sighed. “Your grandmother’s hosting and paying. Her choice.”
A loud moan stopped the pair in their tracks. Floorboards groaned. Then came the unnerving sound of nails scratching against plywood.
“The owner did say the place might be… preoccupied,” the assistant added.
Sasha paused, her wheels spinning.
“Well, this is a Halloween party… let’s just go with it.”
Always thinking. Always adapting. Always the consummate professional.
The Weekday One Hundred 