"Your PROBLEM at the moment," a man tapped a manila folder,

  "Is that," folder whipped open, two photographs revealed, "That little person is (i)not(i) African.  And that weapon or whatever in Hell (i)this(i) is," the photograph was ripped unstapled from the folder and held in front of a face that had rolled cocky eyes and looked away, "What spoiled the beauty." 

  An arm around a little person by another little person and a vanity mirror handed between women. 

  "Ready?" 

  A bated breath nod, quick. 

  And staring at the reflection.  

 "No scar." A guardian-parent rubbed two shiney lucky pennies together.  "Now we go.  Work s'more." 

  The little person took the hand of the guardian-parent.