A door-to-door knife salesman comes to the door, says he gives up, he's willing to bargain with me, he likes my face, just don't tell the neighbors, he says. Two knives for the price of one! He tells me his knives are tough, can cut through bone. Prove it, I say. That's not clever, he says, and tells me he's been trained to respond to that answer, which everyone invariably gives if they haven't already slammed the door. His company, Hear Ye Knives, doesn't endorse violence with knives, No sir, and hands me some reading material -- "Don't be Kn-aive about Knife Safety". He draws a simulation bone from his steel briefcase, it's hollow, but real bone might be hollow, I wouldn't know, I'm no doctor. He cuts through it with a smooth cutting motion. Well I'll be damned, I say. Come in and have a beer. He tells me no one has invited him in for a beer before, and that he only took this stupid job to meet people, to make friends. We split a sixer and watch TV, and later, come nightfall, gouge the neighbor's tires, then head into town, our moonstruck blades lighting the way.

[Forever after at]


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