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dealing with.
    “You know, you could have
just asked me if I was carrying weapons or anything like that.”  I offered
to the man who appeared to be this little group’s boss.
    With the slightest scoff
he stepped a little closer to me before saying, “Our boss is not the most
trusting type and so by extension neither are we.  And to be perfectly
blunt we don’t know you, so how can we trust you?  And if we can’t trust
you, why would we ask you if you were carrying anything we wouldn’t allow?”
    “So if you knew me, you
would trust me?”
    “If we really knew you we
wouldn’t have to trust you.”
    “Why’s that?”  I
asked with genuine curiosity.  What is this man’s philosophy on trust?
    “Because if we knew you,
you would no longer be in the land of the living.”  The lead guard replied
with that same blend of gentleness and firmness that he had greeted me
with.  And that made his tone of voice even creepier than it was already.
“Cheerfully-creepy” should never be used to describe someone’s tone of voice as
far as I was concerned.
    I felt the thug’s hands
stop as he felt something in my pockets and I mentally sighed.  Now I knew
he wasn’t going to find guns, a wireless antenna, or anything like that. 
But there were a few things I had been hoping they would overlook. 
Unfortunately, it seemed that the guard searching me was more observant that I
had hoped.  He pulled out one of the hand warmers that were stuffed into my
coat pocket and asked, “What’s this?”
    For a second I considered
softening my tone, but then I thought better of it as all these guys were the
type of men who might see that as a weakness.  It was better they thought
me rude than weak.  So I kept up the defiant attitude as I flashed their
boss a smile and turned my head to look at the goon. “It’s a hand warmer my
dear friend.  Did you want to borrow it?”
    The only reaction I saw
from the man was a slight tightening of his eyes.  It was actually the
boss who replied to my question, and, again, I had to suppress a shudder at his
tone.  “More importantly, why do you need one?  It’s a perfectly warm
day out.”
    I turned my head back to
stare at the lead thug as I answered him, with the first obfuscated truth I
could think of.  “Sometimes my body has trouble regulating itself and I
can get cold very easily.  So when that happens I need to have something
on hand to warm myself up.”  It’s mostly true anyway .
    “Really?”  He
asked.  Why can so many people master that technique while I struggle
with it ?
    But I pressed on with the
fabrication, “It’s a condition I’ve had since childhood.  And while it’s
gotten better over the years, it does seem to crop up at the most inconvenient
times.  So I have learned never to leave home without a few of these
stowed in my pockets.”  Finished with my explanation I turned my head back
around to face the thug who had taken the hand warmer out of my pocket and
asked.  “Could I please have it back?  I would hate to need it and
not have it.”
    For anyone else a hand
warmer would be nothing special.  But for me, it was like a triple shot of
espresso laced with amphetamines.  Fortunately no one here had any idea
what I was capable of.  Presumably the head gentle-thug gave his man a nod
because a hand was thrust into my pocket, with more than enough force to rock
me slightly. The thug behind me chirped a feigned apology, “I’m so sorry about
that, sir.”
     
    Apparently the tone I had
been using was working, since the rented muscles stopped searching me. 
With that boon I should have just moved on.  After all I had clearly
rattled them enough that they forget to fully do their job.  There was no
reason for me to insult them further.  Of course my big mouth ignored this
logic.  “It’s quite alright my dear man, I know how the uncoordinated fair
in life.”
    I could see the face of
the lead man change from casual dislike to fierce