A bedtime story...

Ok, the formatting doesn't translate well, but you'll get the point. This is called "An Appointment with the Knifeman". Enjoy

My first appointment for the evening is at 7:30. Most clients do not schedule me this early. I tend to cater to the night crowd. I arrive at the home at 7:28. I’ve learned to be precise. Showing up too early can be horrific; showing up late can be deadly.
The trees and sidewalk are clear of leaves. Spots of frost have already begun to form on the lawn. The small home hovers over the front yard, a prison guard watching from his tower. I can see basement lights barely shining through the blacked out bottom windows. The rest of the house is dark. I hope the client has not forgotten about our appointment.
I climb out of my car, then walk up to the steps. I ring the doorbell at exactly 7:30. The faint light, which had illuminated the lawn, goes out. A door inside the house slams. Anyone else might be tempted to ring the bell a second time. I resist; my client knows who is at the door because I ring only once. Just like opportunity.
The front door opens to reveal half the face of tonight’s client. It looks nothing like the drawings on the news. Not all my clients are so lucky.
"Is that you, Mr. Cutter?" the half-face asks.
"None other, Mr. Harmer." Harmer. Sounds fake. But I’m one to talk, aren’t I?
"Please," the door opens farther, "come in, Mr. Cutter. I heard of your impeccable timing but you’ve surprised me. I don’t like surprises. I’ll make an exception this time."
"I hope you’ll make many more. You may be surprised and hopefully amazed at the quality of my product."
"We’ll see about that."
"Yes, yes we will."


I walk back to my car to get my sample case. I never bring it with me to the door the first time. Some of my clients change their minds and do not wish to see me. Sometimes the client isn’t home for whatever reason. So I leave the case in the car. I have a few other reasons but those reasons are mine to keep.
I return to the front door, case in hand. Mr. Harmer has turned on the living room light allowing me to see where I should sit. I walk into the house and take a seat near the coffee table. My seat, of course, is the orange plastic chair. Stolen from some elementary school that Mr. Harmer can never forget. Mr. Harmer sits in the recliner at the other end of the table. I’m used to this sort of dominant/submissive treatment. Every client wants to be in charge. Every client thinks he is doing something new. The first to leave a note; the first to drive a panel van; the first to treat me like a child. I tell Mr. Harmer that he is in for more surprises.
I heave my case onto the table. The table is just wide enough to accommodate the case. I open it, lifting one side and turning it towards Mr. Harmer. His eyes bulge, not an uncommon reaction.
The knives, each in their place, shine in the limited light. Each knife, from the three-inch paring knife to the 14-inch bread knife, is made of 420J stainless steel. Each of the knives offered by Cutterman Inc. are full tang constructed. Ginsu may slice tomatoes, MiracleBlade might cut sheetrock, but Cutterman knives are guaranteed to slice through bone.
I’m very proud of these facts and I let Mr. Harmer know so. He scowls, grunts, and reaches for the cleaver. I gently lift the handle before Mr. Harmer can leave a fingerprint on it. Had I shifted the blade a half-inch to the left, Mr. Harmer would no longer have a thumb. I moved a quarter-inch and nicked his hand. His blood drips onto his table, not my knives. I don’t think anyone would notice another drop of blood on Mr. Harmer’s coffee table.
I know everything that touches the knives in my case. I know everyone who touches my knives.


I twirl the cleaver in my hand, slicing the air. I pull a black handkerchief from a pocket inside the case. I wipe the blade clean. Sparkling, as always.
"As you have just witnessed, Mr. Harmer, Cutterman Knives wipe clean. Even blood comes right off. That should be an especially enticing incentive to a man in your field."
"What do you know about it?" Mr. Harmer said. He springs out of his chair, leaning over the table. His snarl and sneer might scare seventeen-year-old girls but it doesn’t scare me.
"Please, Mr. Harmer. Sit back down. Do you think I would be here without knowing exactly who you are and what your business is?"
Mr. Harmer eases back into his chair. His body relaxes but his eyes remain paranoid. I can tell he would rather be back in his basement. I replace the cleaver in its space and decide to go for the sell now.
"Mr. Harmer, let me show you the crown jewel of the Cutterman collection." I hold out our sixteen-inch-long butcher knife. "As you can see, this knife is a whole four inches wide at the base of the blade. The length gives it that extra inch so many of our customers desire. The full-tang construction and 420J stainless steel make this the most durable knife of its type available anywhere."
Mr. Harmer’s eyes melt into a look of lust, replacing paranoia. "Do you have any frozen steaks, Mr. Harmer?" I ask.
"I think so, let me check the kitchen," Mr. Harmer answers. He stands up, eyes still on the butcher knife. He turns around when he reaches the kitchen doorway. I hear the refrigerator door open and the sounds of Mr. Harmer rummaging through his frozen foods.
"The thicker, the better, Mr. Harmer," I call out.
He comes back into the living room. "I don’t seem to have any up here. Let me check the basement freezer. All my big stuff is down there." I wave my hand in assent. Mr. Harmer grins and that lustful gleam returns to his eyes. "I’ll be just a second."
"I’ll be right here," I say. Mr. Harmer heads for the door that leads down to the basement. I can picture that diffused light shining on the lawn again. The butcher knife resides firmly in my hand. I love the feel of this knife. It is our most popular item and definitely my favorite.
Silently, I descend the steps into the basement, knife in hand. Careful not to trip over the pink and white Hello Kitty backpack, or the ashtray full of tiny sparkling earrings. This demonstration will be better downstairs.
"I can’t seem to find any thick steaks," Mr. Harmer yells. "I’m sorry."
"Don’t be," I whisper into his ear. "This will do perfectly."
"What will do…" Mr. Harmer can not finish his question with the knife buried in his chest.
"Can you feel how that extra length really does the job, Mr. Harmer," I say to him. His hand reaches to his back. He winces when his fingers nudge the tip of the blade. His fingers drip blood as he brings it back into view. "Can you feel it," I ask.
Mr. Harmer nods. His eyes close. No sale this time. Before our appointment is finished, I decide to take my commission out of Mr. Harmer.