[ WP ] In the second coming of King Arthur , the sword in the stone has returned and thousands line up to take a turn . You step up to the stone , give a tug ... and the blade breaks .

“ Thou lookest like a strapping young lad! Looking to outfit thyself with one of the finest blades in all the land? ” The burly man in front of me was putting more effort into the act than anyone else at the Faire. 
 
 “ Uh... ”, I stammered for a moment and paused to wait for the only other ‘ customer ’ in the hut to exit. 
 “ Look, can you cut the Middle English deal for a minute and look at something for me? ” I asked in a hushed voice. 
 
 “ Whatever dost thou mean? Is my manner of speech – ” I glared at him and slammed two $ 20 bills on the counter. 
 “ OK, but make it quick – it ’ s bad for business to drop the illusion ” he said, this time with a distinct Georgia twang. 
 
 After a furtive glance towards the door, I shrugged off my backpack and unzipped it. I pulled the broken sword from the large pocket and laid it in front of the man. The remaining blade was roughly 6 inches long, ending in a jagged and uneven edge. The Georgian blacksmith frowned and peered closer, gentling fingering the shattered metal. “ It appears thy blade was cleaved in ‘ twain, ” he muttered, “ Oh, sorry... habit. ” 
 
 I was getting exasperated. “ Just tell me what kind of sword it is – is it special, something ancient? ” The man gave me a quizzical look. 
 
 “ Special? This is the lowest-grade steel I ’ ve seen in years. Heck, the crap you can buy online from those discount sword shops – the ones made in Indonesia? THAT steel is less brittle than this hunk of junk. ” 
 Seriously? I had been all worked up over nothing, clearly – this whole ‘ sword in the stone ’ thing was a huge prank of some kind. I breathed a sigh of relief and thanked the shopkeeper. As I turned to leave, he insistently handed me the sword, hilt first. “ I can ’ t have this trash in my shop – I deal in quality blades for the knights of this realm! ” 
 
 As I walked towards my car, the sun was plummeting towards the horizon– apparently it was as exhausted as I felt at that moment. I had driven two hours to get here, to the only place I thought I might find a ‘ sword expert ’ on short notice. I thought back to this afternoon – to booking it through a confused and crestfallen crowd of people after I had shattered the ‘ Legendary Weapon of Destiny ’. I chuckled at my own naiveté. 
 A flash of lightning suddenly blinded me, and over a roar of thunder I heard, “ Halt, emissary of evil! ” As my sight returned, I beheld a wizened old man standing between me and my 2010 Civic, dressed in tattered robes and wielding a cane – just a normal cane, like you might see in abundance at any retirement home. The man ’ s gaze drilled into me with its intensity. I was too bewildered to even consider a reply, and he soon continued, his voice surprisingly robust for his age: “ I know not what vile plans you have for the shattered Excalibur, but I and the rightful King will end them here and now! ” With that, he stepped aside to reveal a gangly 15-year-old boy who was grasping something in both hands. I realized: it was the other end of the sword! He had wrapped its base in cloth and was wielding it as if it were the world ’ s tiniest spear. 
 
 I regained my composure slightly, and I thought I might defuse the waves of anxiety coming off this kid with a joke. “ What, are you guys filming Back to the Future 4 or something? Where ’ s the DeLorean? ” 
 Before anyone could laugh at my hilarious quip, the boy charged at me, his voice cracking as he attempted a battle cry. I backed away, and dodged his first thrust. “ Hey, what are you doing?! That thing looks moderately sharp! ” I yelled. He continued lunging at me, yelping awkwardly with each attack. I still had the hilt-half of the sword in my hand, and I brought it up to parry his blow – its ragged, broken end connected with his arm. With a yowl of pain, he dropped his weapon and rolled on the ground away from me. 
 “ Well, what do you expect, messing around with sharp things!? Ugh... ” I felt slightly queasy as I saw the trickle of blood coming from his forearm. “ Put some pressure on it....and clean it thoroughly, otherwise you ’ ll have a nasty scar. ” 
 
 I deftly grabbed the tip of the sword that the boy had dropped, and I walked – no, swaggered, really – the remaining 20 feet to my car door. The old man, his voice far less imposing now, shouted admonitions, curses, warnings and incantations at me, but I simply started up my car and slowly pulled out of the lot. 
 Time flew by on the ride home. I was preoccupied with thoughts of the day ’ s strange events – was I some “ Emissary of Evil ”? The most ‘ evil ’ thing I had ever done was lie on my resume. The next time Doc and Marty show up, I thought, I should really try to de-escalate the situation and explain myself. Still, there was something fun about being the ‘ bad guy ’. I tried out my most sinister cackle, staring at my reflection in the rear-view mirror. Then, feeling suddenly awkward, I vowed never to do that again and sheepishly returned my gaze to the road ahead.
