She calls this place “The Devil’s Workshop,” asylum of idle hands and unkept promises.
A sarcastic travel agent issued her a one-way ticket in a vintage handbasket, not the best mode of travel on an empty stomach.
Who knew the junket would entail steamy back roads paved with good intentions gone incredibly bad?
But wasn’t that always her luck?
She seemed to forever place her last five dollars on a snowball’s sucker chance.
And now here she is, employing female fury to open up damnation in this awkward place she calls “The Devil’s Workshop,”
Searching her pockets,
Empty as always,
That hell must be paid.