The Handshake of Doom

by Greg Morey

Johnathon Steward had the most powerful handshake in the office. He had the dreaded handshake of doom.
No one ever wanted to have a private meeting with him, or get invited into his office, or see him in the lunch room after the weekend, or tell him of an impending wedding, or see him at all at any time. In addition, he had a killer backslap and a deadly fake golfswing.
That's why, when my wife got pregnant, I tried to keep it a secret. My colleague, Mary-anne Sigswedd, found out, and I had to kill her. I pretended I was having trouble with the copy machine. She came by and I asked for her help. Then I stabbed her in the arm with a needle full of chlorophyll. For three weeks she didn't have to eat, since she synthesized energy from light. Finally, she took root and grew into a lovely potted plant. My secret was safe, or so I thought.
My secretary, Don Winglewood, fielded a call from my wife about an Ob/Gyn appointment. Within two minutes the entire secretarial pool knew, curse their gossipy hides! I had no choice. I released a company-wide e-mail. Then I waited. At lunchtime the phone rang. I tensed, my hands clenched in cold, sweaty fear. Ever since my wife realized she was pregnant, I knew that this moment was inevitable. In preparation I employed the services of a fifth-level blackbelt in Ju-shaido, the Way of the Handshake. My sensai made me do 841 different hand exercises 76 times a day. It cut into my Solitaire-playing time, but it was worth it. On top of the exercises I had to study the complex bone structure and nerve endings of the hand, as well as psychological relaxation techniques to make my own hand relatively nerveless. I was as ready as I could possibly be. With 300 years of the mystic art of the handshake behind me, I answered the phone.
"Hello..?"
"Hello, Mr. Gusteyan, I've booked a 1:30 for you with Mr. Steward." It was Johnathon Steward's secretary. My throat clamped. There was a long, meaningless pause. "Mr. Gusteyan?"
"I..I'll be there," I choked out, my brow beading with perspiration. The game was afoot, or should I say, the time was at hand.
The appointed time rolled around, and I made my way to Johnathon Steward's office. I was nervous, but calm; sweaty, but serendipitous; ghostly, but shaven; friasmatic, but scared; in short, I had my secret weapon with me.
The bronzed oaken doors to Johnathon Steward's sanctum sanctorum flew open, crashing into the walls with a deafening boom. The rabid abstract art (that is the hallmark of any business) hurtled from the walls in a vain attempt to commit suicide and end the needless suffering of millions.
"Harry!" boomed Johnathon Steward, his burly hands flexing in anticipation, "I just wanted to tell you myself how happy I am for you and the missus. Congratulations!"
And there it was. In slow-motion the huge hand, carried by the rippling forearm which was rotated by the grotesquely powerful elbow which, in turn, was locomoted by the brawny, bear-like shoulder, came toward me. The smile on his face widened as his eyes narrowed. The other hand swung up in preparation for a deadly shoulder-slapping, or worse, a one-armed half-hug of chest-squeezing proportions. The hand descended inexorably on my tiny outstretched defender. Johnathon Steward didn't even notice the gleam of the extra "ring" on my middle finger. His eyes shot open in surprise as 25,000 volts coursed through the joy buzzer and into his massive paw, instantly caramelizing his fingernails and setting his hair on fire.
He leapt back, crashing into the wall as I turned, cool and collected, on my heel, dropping the joy buzzer in the wastebasket on my way back to play Solitaire in my office.