By Howard U. Dewin

Volume 1, Issue 1, Page 6 (November 1988)

The milk carton leaned low to the counter and whispered to the knife lounging in the morning sun, “I bet you fifty bucks I get put away before you get washed.”

“You’re on, man,” stuttered the knife, “and don’t think of stiffing me this time, cause I’m sharper now. I’ll cut you bad if you don’t fork over the dough pronto.”

“You wouldn’t dare.” taunted the milk leaning a little. “You cut me, there’ll be a mess, and you’ll be history when bitch gets pissed and chucks down the disposal to make you behave.”

“You think so, do you, man? Well, maybe I ought to right now and show you who is boss  around here.”

And the knife jabbed the milk between the “i” and the “l.” A single drop of milk rolled slowly onto the counter. The milk made no grimace, no sound of pain.

Silently a greasy hand with purple nails picked up the knife. Searching eyes looked the knife up and down as a curious thumb tested its edge. With a quick thrust the hand plunged the knife into its keeper’s heart, and the homemaker keeled over dead.