Tell me a story about: the knife.
Spent the morning harvesting for our local orders and the evening fiddling with tomato plants. In between I hid inside, avoiding the burning gaze of Mr. Sun.
They called him The Knife, though never when he was around to hear it. They didn't want to have his namesake slipped between their ribs, after all.
His role in the neighbourhood was to keep the peace, though rarely through peaceful methods. His name was enough to cast a chilling shadow on any argument before it could become too heated, and mothers didn't even need that much to keep their children under control.
They simply had to open their cutlery drawer and begin cleaning a knife - any would do.
But The Knife is getting on in years now, and there is concern that once he crosses over there will be no one to fill his black shoes. There's talk of lawlessness taking hold before the soil over his coffin can settle.
I won't let that happen though. That's why tonight, when these weaklings and fools are safe in their beds, I'm going hunting for The Knife.