I'm going to tell you about the bones. I hope you enjoy this little exchange and suffer along with me because I couldn't flesh this one out.
But I guess a story about bones can't have flesh, right? Picked clean of descriptors and flowery prose?
Otto knelt among the trees, looking at Mother Nature's beauty and growling with rage. In two years, this would be a massive subdivision. Worst of all, Jim had beaten him out on developing it. The sound of Whitefeather's pickup truck arriving jarred Otto out of his rage. "Got the bones?" asked Otto. Whitefeather pulled out a burlap sack and tossed it on the ground. "Excellent," said Otto. "When they dig these up, they'll have to stop. Now all we need to do is bury them." "We?" Whitefeather tossed a shovel to Otto. "Good luck, Paleface," he said and drove off.
