Butter Knife stared intensely at the sky. Any moment now, I, the ever-benevolent author and master over her fate, could make her life miserable.
"You better not."
And perhaps for once, I shan't.
And so Butter Knife sat there. Menacingly. She stared and stared up at the sky, perpetually ready for something terrible to happen at any moment, when in reality after nearly four hours had passed as of this particular word, all that had happened was that she was hearing my absolutely stunning and flawless voice comparable to angels knocking around in her head.
Legends tell that after she finally got bored and walked away, a statue was erected in her place to memorialize the mare who'd stared straight at the sun for a week straight with no ill effects.