Argyle knew that Jacques D'Coolette was bad news from the moment he walked outside that morning, and no, it definitely wasn't on account of Jacques stealing Lara-Su away. It was purely business reasons. Yeah, that was it. Jacques was taking his business away. It had nothing to do with Lara-Su. Except it did, a little bit.

Argyle took a swig from his water bottle. Come on! Jacques didn't even have to speak to attract customers, whereas he practically had to destroy his throat over here!

He sighed. Maybe it was the new hats?

A New York street artist was not a profitable business. He'd known that when he'd started. He was okay with that, even. He did what he loved, and so long as what he loved paid the bills, that wouldn't be changing anytime soon. (Although, to make a little extra, he'd begun to sell those hats.)

And then in waltzes Jacques with his stupid paintings and his stupid accent and his stupid...stupidness...and there goes the girl of his dreams. Sheesh. He'd swear if he didn't think it would lose a few customers; namely, that uptight accountant from the nearby church who always reveled in his sketches of The Passion of the Christ.

But the important part was that Lara-Su always stopped by his stand first. It was a routine and it was sacred and he knew he was going to strangle that coyote by the end of the day.

For Pete's sake, she was giving him money! What on earth for? Some stupid painting?

Argyle slumped in his seat. It was going to be a long day.

"Are these poisoned?" Argyle grumbled, but picked them up anyway.

The Frenchman had balls, he'd give him that. Going to Skye's Flowers for this...come on!

"A gift of friendship," Jacques had written on a tag attached to the flowers. "I noticed your glances; I do hope it does not spell animosity. May we get along."

Argyle snorted. As if! Animosity was hardly the word. No, interacting with Jacques was like getting teeth pulled. A better word would have been "loathing".

Argyle glanced from side to side. No prospective customers at 12 in the morning. Good. He had just enough time before the lunch rush.

He stormed into Skye's Flowers, although the welcoming look the fox gave him did help his mood. The entire place felt welcoming, as a matter of fact. Flowers lined the whole shop, and numerous huge windows let a warm light in.

"Argyle!" Skye said. "I'm surprised to see you at this hour."

"Never mind that," Argyle said. "This is urgent. How do you spell 'eat crud and die' with flowers?"

Skye was visibly taken aback both by Argyle's mood and demands. "U-um," he began, "I don't believe there is a way to spell even 'eat' in a bouquet…"

Argyle sighed. "My bad, Skye. I'm just in a bad way. But what's the meanest way to give someone a bouquet?"

"Wait, is this about Lara-Su?" Skye asked instead. "Are you guys okay?"

"No, it's not her," Argyle said. "It's that other artist, the one that just set up today?"

"Oh, Jacques?" Skye smiled. "I met him earlier. He seems like a really nice guy. What could you want with him?"

So now he's fooling my friends, too, Argyle grumbled internally. No dignity!

What he actually said was, "He's a douchebag. You know what, just give me a dozen roses."

"Um...sure," Skye replied, puzzled. The roses were nearby at all times of the day because of their order frequency, so it didn't take long to package them. "That's $23."

"Thanks," Argyle said simply, laying down the bills. "Got any scissors?"

"Yes, but Argyle, this is the strangest thing you've ever asked me to do," Skye said, still confused. He handed Argyle the scissors.

"Thanks, Skye. For your own safety, avert your eyes."

"Wh-what? Hey!"

Argyle took the scissors and began to brutally lop the head off each individual flowers. The buds rained to the floor, and Argyle was left with:

"Perfection!" he crowed.

"I do not understand," Jacques stated, looking concerned. "Is this a New York custom?"

"Ya darn right it is," Argyle cackled, walking away. "Have fun, lover boy!"

He could hear Jacques pricking himself as he struggled to get to the tag on the bouquet: "Owch! Ça fait mal!"

"Your...art...is worse...than your manners?" Jacques read aloud. His brow furrowed, and then the other shoe dropped.

"So it is war, then, scélérat!" Jacques called from across the street. Music to Argyle's ears.

Yeah, it was war, and Argyle wasn't gonna back down until he never had to see that smug, ugly mug ever again.