The Most Futile Hunt
Where: Dog-Ink Tattoo
When: A little after 4:00PM
What: Imogene's looking for a little work to tide her over.
She was trudging along the river. Again. Imogene glared in the vague direction of the sun, silently cursing it for providing the worst possible sort of heat to be running all over town in. She was hot, sweaty, tired, and cursing herself for only snatching two cucumbers this morning. Her stomach didn't appreciate the neglect. And it didn't help that she kept passing delicious-smelling diners and restaurants that she didn't dare set foot in, dressed as she was. She'd been looking for a job for hours, and her luck was horrid. She couldn't really blame people for not wanting to hire someone dressed as she was (even though she had washed her clothes in the river), but really, how could she afford to buy work-appropriate clothing when she didn't have a job? It was a vicious circle.
Looking up, she just happened to spot a sign on a nearby shop - Help Wanted. For a moment her hope rose... then she sighed. Really, why would this place be any different. Still... Imogene squinted at the sign. Dog what now? Ink? A tattoo parlor? Well... at the very least she could peruse the art. She'd always wanted a tattoo, in a vague sort of way, but had never gotten around to getting one. Most of the places back home that would ink you without checking ID were, frankly, disgusting, and she wasn't that stupid. Anyway, she was no artist, and certainly had no experience with this kind of work. Still, it'd be a pleasant break from the heat.
"Please have air conditioning..." Imogene stepped up to the door and pushed it open, peering inside.