Truth. Justice. Minesweeper.

Thursday, November 18, 2004

I waved Itzhak's package in Greyghost's face. "What's the idea here?"

"That's the knife I ordered from Itzhak."

"Since when do you carry around knives? What's next, a damn Uzi?"

He took the knife from me and said, "Look." He picked up the three-hole punch and casually cut it in half. Wow.

"Hey. I need that."

"The knife is to cut through locks and chains and perhaps doors. You probably noticed it isn't balanced for combat." Like I'd know.

I picked up the pieces of three-hole punch. Irreparable. Another trip to Pencil Depot for the kid. "Let me run a scenario by you. You're fighting the Obnoxious Octopus, and he's winning. He's about to finish you off. You're desperate for something, anything, that can help you. Your hand falls on this knife, in your utility belt, and you swing it around and cut his throat. Plausible?"

"Certainly it's plausible."

"Then give it back to me. You don't want to kill anybody, for Christ's sake."

"It's plausible but it won't happen. I don't kill people. In a fight such as you describe, I'd be more concerned about killing my opponent than about him killing me."

"Easy to say."

He offered the knife back to me, handle first. Now I had to decide: was I just making a point, or did I really think he couldn't be trusted to carry the damn thing around?

"No, that's okay," I said.

"Thank you, Dennis," he said, putting the knife away in the weapons cabinet.

"Be careful with it, though," I told him. "It's hell on office supplies."
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