I mean, think of it. A sword in a cane. It fools people. Especially when people look at you and say, “Here’s a man who needs a cane to walk.” Well...ha! I just punctured your torso. No, I would never do that. But I could if I wanted to. Remember that.

What was the best thing about The Avengers, a TV spy show from the sixties? If you remember it, you will probably say, the leather catsuits worn by Diana Rigg. And you would be correct. Did you think I was going to say Patrick Macnee’s sword cane? I’d never say that. I should never have used the word “best.” Really, there’s no comparison. Apples and oranges. Catsuits and sword canes. Also, this story is not about catsuits, it’s about a sword cane.

I was a young man in the sixties. I’m much older now. I decided to create a bucket list because that’s what you’re supposed to do when you’re of an age. My bucket list items were “pick up dry cleaning,” “fix hole in screen door,” “defrost refrigerator,” “buy floss,” and “floss.” Not a very impressive bucket list, I admit—except for one thing: “buy a sword cane.”

Yes, dammit, I was going to do it. I said to myself, “Larry, don’t go to your grave never having owned a sword cane.”

Determined to find the perfect sword cane, I sought out One-Eyed Dave’s House of Concealed Weapons.

One-Eyed Dave eyed me with his one eye. “Yes?” “I’d like to see your finest cane,” I said.

Dave showed me a beauty. Mahogany. With a fierce-looking dragon on the handle.

“I’ll take it,” I said and began to unsheathe it.

“Careful,” said One-Eyed Dave.

“Why?” I said. “Are you afraid I’ll put my eye out?”

One-Eyed Dave didn’t respond. I said the joke louder in case he hadn’t heard me.

“ARE YOU AFRAID I’LL PUT MY—?”

“Sh. It’s an eye I’m missing. I have two perfectly good ears.”

“Sorry.”

“And I’ve heard that joke before.”

“Sorry.”

“Perhaps I can interest you in some other concealed weapons,” said One-Eyed Dave.

He laid out more inventory on the counter: A switchblade corkscrew.

Brass knuckle mittens.

A spear dust mop.

A cutlass shop vac.

A bow & arrow tenor saxophone.

“That looks interesting,” I said, pointing to an oblong object. “What is it?”

“A meatball sub. That’s my lunch.”

“I just need the sword cane, thanks,” I said, handing One-Eyed Dave my credit card.

“You understand, Larry,” said Dave, “your weapon is like a Samurai sword. If you unsheathe it, you must draw blood. You can do some real damage with that bad boy.”

“I don’t want to do damage. I just want people to see how cool I am.”

“Gotcha. Hey, if you ever want to really cripple somebody, I recommend the land mine garden gnome.”

I ran out the door before Dave could upsell me more concealed weapons.

I dismissed the Samurai tale as a quaint old story, like Goldilocks and the Three Bears only with blood. I thought nothing more of it. I was thrilled to finally own a sword cane, one that would make a SSHHK sound when unsheathed, as promised in the Quick Start guide.

Before I revealed my sword cane to the world, I thought I’d practice the reveal in the mirror. I inadvertently observed the code of the Samurai by drawing my own blood. You know how a paper cut feels? Well, this was nothing like that. This was a deep gash on my side that required fourteen stitches. A paper cut is a poor comparison. I apologize.

I vowed then and there to always wear a shirt when I drew my sword. Or twelve shirts. Sure I got sweaty. But better sweat than blood.

Little did I realize, other people would soon be bleeding for me.

I was invited to a party. It was a formal affair; I wore twelve of my best shirts. All night long people admired my cool cane with the dragon on the handle. I chuckled to myself. They had no idea.

Finally, at midnight, it was time for the reveal. Someone was holding a bottle of cabernet, saying, “Anyone seen the corkscrew?” I declared, “I didn’t buy the switchblade corkscrew at One-Eyed Dave’s...” blank stares, “...but maybe you can open the bottle with this.” I unsheathed the sword

with a SSTP sound—not the sound the manual promised; I made a mental note to write to the manufacturer. Party guests, anyone within a six-foot radius of me, started bleeding and screaming. I mumbled something like, “Don’t blame me, blame the code of the Samurai,” and made a hasty exit.

I knew I’d never be included in that circle of friends again, even after they healed.

I was despondent. I needed to take my mind off my troubles.

I took a ride in a hot air balloon, a recent addition to my bucket list.

I was being so careful. I knew it would be a bad idea to unsheathe my sword in the basket with the other riders. So I climbed up the cables that connected the basket to the balloon. You’d think they’d make the balloon out of stronger, sword-resistant material. I made another mental note to write to the manufacturer, as we plummeted to the ground.

While I was recovering in the hospital—and may I take this opportunity to thank the doctors and nurses who let me keep my sword cane, at least until I had that mishap with the guy next to me in the oxygen tent—I realized I should unsheathe my sword in front of people who could appreciate fine weaponry. Not fancy dress party attendees. Not hospital patients close to death. Real weapon connoisseurs.

Seeking out other cane owners seemed logical. After extensive research, I learned there was a high percentage of cane users in retirement communities.

“Excuse me,” I called to a group of seniors during their lunch. “I bet you all have swords in your canes.”

“We have sores in our brains?!” screamed one old man. Panic ensued, and I was escorted from the facility.

I attended a Renaissance fair—in retrospect a poor choice. These were not sword cane people; these were broadsword people, and fake broadswords at that. One-Eyed Dave would have laughed in their faces. These actors and actresses insisted on addressing me as “M’lord” and serving me funnel cakes. I drew my sword, in the process slicing wimples, bodkins, and funnel cakes. “Begone, M’lord,” they said, bleeding, but never dropping character.

Sometime later, I was on the run from the mob. It’s all a bit of a blur. I remember eating at an Italian restaurant, thinking I could impress the waitress, unsheathing my sword, and accidentally stabbing an old guy sitting in the corner. His name was Uncle Capo de Tutti Capa. The gangsters protecting him thought I was cool. They also wanted to kill me, gangsters being able to hold conflicting emotions simultaneously.

I ran. I hid. I slept in alleys. I ate garbage. I was like a rat. I regretted my decision to buy a sword cane. Why hadn’t I picked “floss” on my bucket list? I could really use floss, what with all the garbage stuck in my teeth. Eventually, I said, “Enough! If I’m going to live like a rat, I might as well get out of this stinking city and live like a country rat, whatever that means.”

In the country, I ran. I hid. I slept in the underbrush. I was hungry. I wished I had stayed in the city, where there was more garbage.

One morning when I was running along a country road—I wasn’t being chased at the moment, I had just gotten in the habit of running—I was knocked over to the shoulder by an Amish buggy.

The Amish buggy owner was angry. “Thou hast frightened my horse. For that, I shall punish thee.”

He raised his buggy whip to strike. I held up my sword cane in defense.

The Amish man gasped.

“Thou hast a sword cane!”

“You don’t know that for sure. It might be an ordinary cane—”

“I knowest a sword cane when I seest one. I belong to a special sect. We are called the Sword Cane Amish. Gettest thou into my buggy.”

I happily complied. I had found my people.

The Sword Cane Amish led a frugal life. They preached a doctrine of simplicity, believing that no man should own more than he needed for survival. I thought this odd, as every individual owned twenty-five sword canes. But who was I to question their beliefs?

They treated me with kindness. They fed me. They clothed me. They said that, because I was an outsider, I should wear a bonnet, which they found hilarious. I asked if I could eventually take the bonnet off. They said, “Oh sure, just please wear it one more day, you should see yourself.”

I asked them how they had accumulated so many sword canes. They said, “Consider the lilies,” which I thought was no answer at all, but because gangsters were still looking for me, I decided not to press the issue.

One night as I was lying in my bed in the stable, Jacob the Elder (the guy with the buggy whip) came to me.

“What dost thou want, Jacob?” I asked, for I hadst adopted their manner of speech.

Jacob struggled to maintain a straight face. “Sorry...that bonnet...cracks me up...”

“Please gettest thou to the point.”

“Earlier this day,” said Jacob, catching his breath, “the gangsters came for you.”

I sat up suddenly.

“Worry not,” said Jacob. “We perforated them many times over.”

“Thank you,” I said, lying back, relieved.

“You are welcome to stay on with us. Although you have only the single sword cane, we are much taken with it, especially the cool dragon handle.”

“Thank you. I will remain...Jacob?”

“Just please leave the bonnet on one more day,” he said giggling.

“I will gladly. Tell me. Will I ever be able to unsheathe my sword cane without drawing blood?”

Jacob placed a paternal hand on my shoulder.

“We will show you the way,” he said.

Everyone in the community came to watch my unsheathing. They stood behind a protective barrier made of logs and brambles, a hundred yards away from me. Jacob led the community in prayer, then they sang a couple hymns.

“Now,” shouted Jacob. “Commence the unsheathing!”

I took a deep breath. I wiped my sweaty palms on my bonnet. And I did it! I unsheathed my sword cane! Without bloodshed!

The community cheered. We feasted. Apparently, it was one of the sexiest unsheathings the community had ever witnessed. One young woman kept giving me the eye. Her name was Rebecca. Rebecca Rapier. (Each family had taken the name of a sword that fit in a cane, and since the only sword that fit was a rapier, everyone was named Rapier.) I also took the name Rapier. Larry Rapier.

Six weeks later, Rebecca and I were married. Nine months later, we brought a baby Rapier into the world. We were happy.

And they swear I can take the bonnet off tomorrow.