A Close Shave

I recently had a rather unnerving experience.

While ambling down a street in an unfamiliar part of town, I inadvertently bumped into a man who turned out to be a rather unsavory person.  He took great offence at my carelessness and was aggrieved by the contact that ensued with my person.

"I don't like the look of your face!"  he shouted.

"I don't either," I replied, hoping to relieve the tension of the encounter.

Rather than being mollified by my agreeable response, he became more incensed.

"Don't get smart with me!" he bellowed, whipping a razor out of his pocket and waving it in my face.

At that point, I figured I should remove myself from the premises.  I shall flee, I thought.  Let us fly, tapped my feet in Morse Code as I flew down the street.

Close on my heels came the enraged ruffian waving his razor wildly as he pursued me with every intention of changing the looks of my face.

I zigged and zagged through streets and alleys gaining distance between us as I tried to find a way to my car and safety.  At last I turned down an alley that I thought was a shortcut to where I was parked.  It was a dead end.

I started toward the entrance of the alley, hoping that I could get out and away before the razor wielding maniac caught me.  Alas, I met him at the entrance.  I retreated, looking around for a door to enter or some place of refuge.  I reached the end of the alley without finding an escape just as the man caught up with me.

I would really have had a close shave if the battery in his razor hadn't died just as he caught me.