FOUR: Rain Makes Men Late (1)
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My office building was two floors of linoleum, dust, and misery.

Through the front door, the first thing visible was the reception desk, where a slim, white-haired lady sat all day. Behind her, to the right, was a door leading to the stockroom, holding boxes and boxes of knives. All shapes and sizes, different makes and models, thousands upon thousands of blades.

I don’t think I’ve ever mentioned, reader, the details of my ill chosen career whilst I was alive amongst my peers. I had followed in the footsteps of my father and joined the ghastly breed of door-to-door salesman. I specialised in kitchen knives as well as knife sharpeners, knife blocks, and detachable knife blades. Variety is key. That was the saying in our company, but throughout my horrific years of knocking on doors and b...

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