I remember the first time I stabbed a man in the face. I didn’t mean to do it, it just sort of happened. Once upon a time, I was just doing my job, and my client decided to incite some violence into my usually nonchalant life. I knocked, he came to his door, I inquired as to if he had the summary of his dues to Mr. Dowager (my respectable employer), and as usual, he slammed the door in my face. After a brief encounter between the formerly new door and my right foot, he became quite complacent after reaffixing it upon its hinges. After I rearranged the furniture with his face, he soon remembered the bet he lost and his payment, which he kept hidden in his sock drawer. Kindly enough, he showed me his room, and funnily enough he and I shared a similar hobby, holding poodles out of open windows. As he rummaged through his armoire, I found my favorite pen and wrote out his receipt (after all, this is a business). Just as I checked off his name he pulled a large, black pistol from a drawer. Surprised as I was, I slipped on the pool of blood on the floor that was there before I even arrived (not that I am saying I was ever there or even own a pen). Anyway, as I flailed my way to the ground, my lucky pen became entangled in his eyeball, go figure. And in the ensuing confusion, his pistol accidentally discharged, twice, coincidentally blowing out both of his kneecaps. Embarrassed as he was, he promptly paid me and asked me to leave quietly. Ah, good times, good times.