“Son of a bitch!”
Drops of blood dotted the floor. I grabbed a paper towel to press against my stinging fingertips. “Man, that stings.”
It was just a simple piece of wood, sanded smooth and nicely stained. Necklaces would hang from a row of gold-colored cup hooks. A few pieces of double-sided tape would hold it to the side of the antique dresser. I could make one of these and sell them in my own online store.
I must have caught a splinter or something. I almost cut myself again before I noticed the shiny metal corners. I rubbed my finger across a razor blade embedded in the edge. Ingenious. Anyone handling this would cut themselves.
I hadn’t read much about the artisan or product reviews. It was cheap. Fifteen bucks. I just added it to my cart and checked out.
Now I was curious. Had this happened to anyone else? How many items had been sold? How much blood had been spilled?
Every review read like a chapter in a horror novel or a really bad night in the emergency room.
“Small barbed pins embedded themselves into the palm of my hand when I opened the jewelry box.”
“Hot water dissolved the mug’s ceramic coating into my tea, resulting in acid burns to my tongue and throat.”
“Blisters covered my skin where the gold chain hung around my neck.”
“Insects swarmed from tiny eggs glued on the back of the wooden picture frame.”
Four stitches and a painful injection later, I put on my thick leather yard work gloves, packed everything back up in the original box, and sent it back. I added my scathing one-star review to many others, warning future shoppers.
Weeks later, wounds just about healed, my wife brought a box in from the front porch. Coughing, she asked, “Did you order something?”
Before I could come out to say, “I don’t think so,” she had collapsed on the floor.
Waite for it... 