The Brass Wedge

I hoisted myself onto the splintery cedar bench to scout a solitary perch. Right along the slats lay a folded pocket knife—half polished brass, half oxidized black steel, perfectly split down the spine! I shoved it upright to make a solid leaning post, but the stupid brass tip wobbled and slipped on the wood grain. 'HEY! QUIT SLACKING, YOU DUMB CHUNK OF METAL!' I barked into the dusk. I rammed my shoulder right into the metal casing, grinding it down hard until it wedged into the joint between the planks with a crisp, echoing *CRUNCH*. It jammed fast. Now it stands completely rigid, giving me a cold, heavy barricade to lean on in peace.