Squaring the Iron

That green desk pad had more iron on it. Right at the edge of the cherrywood desk, a heavy cast-iron bookend shaped like a crouching gargoyle was listing sideways, letting three thick leather volumes lean dangerously over my lane. I didn't waste time nudging the paper. I planted both boots into the green felt, dropped low, and drove both fists straight into the gargoyle's cold, pitted snout. The heavy metal screeched across the timber, grinding a blunt trail until it slammed dead flush against the gilded spines with a solid thud. Books stood at attention. I backed into the dark notch behind the bindings, sais resting across my knees. The desk is locked down for the night.