A Punch of Ink

A discarded hand-held paper ticket punch lay half-buried beneath discarded transit schedules in the damp stone alcove. Heavy iron, nickel-plated, built to bite clean through cardstock. I balanced my glass bottle against the bluestone footing to free both hands. Wrestling contracts need ironclad terms, not empty talk. Snatching a stiff corner of a neon concert flyer from the pavement, I aligned the punch's steel jaw over the thick paper. I drove my boot heel down onto the punch lever with a sharp crunch. A crisp star-shaped perforation popped free, fluttering to the stone. Official credentials, ratified on my terms.