Fictionlet
Greg struck a wild, exaggerated martial arts pose, one hand high over his head, the other brandishing a men’s safety razor. “New! From Gillette!” he said dramatically. “The X-17 — a little number we like to call … The Widowmaker!”
Brigid stood in the hall and blinked at him, struggling to keep at least one eye open against the malicious morning glare. She didn’t bother to say anything, though. What would be the point?
“Some razors have two blades; others have three. A few have four! But X-17, The Widowmaker, blows them all away with an unprecedented SEVENTEEN BLADES!” He shook his hands violently, making cheesy thunderclap noises. “You may not think it was possible, but we did it! That’s X-17, The Widowmaker, new from Gillette! The man’s razor that BLASTS your face smooth!” More thunder noises.
Brigid blinked at him, wordlessly. He began to look around, sheepishly, still standing in the martial arts pose.
A moment passed.
A moment later, another one passed.
Finally, Greg slunk back off to the bathroom, and Brigid let her eyes squeeze mostly shut again and continued towards the kitchen for her breakfast.
-The Gneech
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