Patricia Hamburger.

“Patty” Hamburger was the name.

She was fragrant, like the oil on the bottom of a barbecue grill, the kind of exotic smell you only encountered in the ranches of the Wild West. With each step she took, her Shien blouse flowed like their flag, which seemed to be everywhere you looked in this foreign land. Like, literally everywhere.

Her eyes were sharp like a bald eagle, shining brown like gravy on meatloaf. Her delicate skin shone like Kim Kardashian’s butt. She carried herself in a humble way, but everyone knew that she was dangerously seductive with her Glock G45, an ancient weapon only the most highly-ranked individuals of her culture possessed. When she spoke, a strange yet intriguing sound came out; her uptalk was distinctly Valley Girl.

She was beautiful.