“Is that a knife or a blade?” you ask.

“A knife!” answers the man holding it.

“A blade,” says his companion.

“I’ll cut you!” shouts the first, pointing it at him.

“What? With that little blade?”

He pulls it back and holds it near his grinning teeth. “Knife,” he spits.

“Well, I don’t think it’s either,” you tell them.

“Huh? Well, what do you suppose it is then, smart pants?” says the one holding it.

“It’s obviously just a toothpick.”

“A toothpick?!” shouts the companion, jumping up, his feet bouncing on air. “Cut him!”

“I intend to.” He creeps closer to you, holding the thing out and twisting it wildly.

“What are you doing?” you ask, taking a shaky step back. Your leg lands as though on a train. Luckily, you are in fact on a train, and they don’t notice your fear.

“What am I doing? I think you have something stuck in your teeth and I aim to get it out,” the man says, staring at your mouth. As the car wobbles on the rails so does the object in his hand. Plus—and, or maybe—he’s also very likely drunk. You wonder how good his aim could possibly be in these conditions. You wonder if that’s a good or bad thing.

You turn to run but his companion cuts you off and trips you to the floor, face first. The diamond patterned metal cheese-grates your cheek. He leans his knee into your back and holds your head up and mouth open. Your spine pops under the pressure. Grit from his fingernails lands in your mouth and collects at the corners. The first man appears in front of you and holds the sharp object to your face.

“Please don’t,” you plead without the aid of your lips.

“Why are you so worried? It’s just a toothpick.” He smirks as he hunches forward to within inches of your face. His hot breath in the cold air flows over you like a heater. He smells of turpentine and cigarette butts and those little suckers they give out at dental offices.

He jams the object in and two teeth on your lower left sting as it splits them. He wiggles it around. Pulls it back. He holds up the thin sliver of wood. Im- paled on the end is a piece of string bean. The other man lets you go and your chin hits the floor.

“See?” says the first. “Just something in your teeth. All we wanted was to help.” He wipes the green off on his boot. You feel around your mouth but everything’s still there, though they do feel a little cleaner.

“What a rude fellow this guy,” the companion says as they walk forward to the next car. “No manners at all.”