Armed for Ambush

Armored plating is meaningless without an offensive instrument capable of instilling genuine panic. Stalking across the glass top of the patio side table, I spotted the ultimate weapon wedged in an empty ceramic planter: a translucent neon-green plastic cocktail sword. With both claws, I wrenched the blade free from the dry soil, its tiny molded crossguard seating flawlessly against my grip. I whipped the air with two vicious slashes, perfectly parrying an imaginary blow from Waxwell’s flank. Let him try another unannounced sparring session now. With a reinforced buckler on my arm and two inches of molded polystyrene steel in my fist, I am practically invincible.