It wasn’t the first time someone had tried to kill me at my desk, still I was less than prepared. When I realized what the small noises behind me really meant, the only weapon to hand was my Mont Blanc fountain pen. I’d done more with less on many occasions, I wasn’t going to let this be a hardship.

Before I heard the garrote’s wind, destined for my neck, I lunged and stabbed at what I hoped was my assailant’s throat. By luck I buried the pen halfway into what(to judge by the six foot spray of the old claret)was a major artery. Wrenching the gore covered pen out of the assassins neck, I prepared for the next strike.

It wasn’t necessary. My would be killer crumpled to the floor in slow stages, spurting blood like some hellish lawn sprinkler all the while. First his knees,then hips, torso, shoulders, and finally his head came to rest on the reddening floor.

Somehow the page on my desk remained pristine throughout this bloody debacle until I dropped my weapon upon it. The pen sprayed ink-blood onto the page.