All I wanted to do was read the newspaper. That’s all I want to do at seven-thirty in the morning: read the paper and check on world events before the markets open. So I’m trying to read the paper and plan my trades and up he walks. I say “walks,” it was more of a strut, a strut and a hop, like a chicken trying to get out of Colonel Sanders’ frying pan. He was Asian, Chinese maybe. Small and wiry like a Bruce Lee movie. He moved like he knew his stuff. He oozed an “I know my stuff and I don’t need to use it because you know I know my stuff” attitude. And I knew he knew I knew he knew his stuff. And he didn’t have to use it. Because he was carrying a forty caliber automatic. But he didn’t know I knew my stuff; I knew the automatic was a fake. It had fake written all over it. I told him: “That’s a fake,” I said. He said something, and then his lips moved, and he said something else, and then his lips moved again, and none of it made any sense. But I could tell he knew I knew he wanted to finish it -- right there, right then. He took a jab; he jabbed left. I was ready for him, I ducked left. Jab, words, lips, nothing connected. He jabbed right, I parried, everything out of sync. He made a noise like noodles being slurped; I looked at him like Sushi. I wanted to finish it. I folded my newspaper. “Nurse!” I shouted. She came. She jabbed center, right in the butt, a three inch needle. She finished it -- right there, right then. I turned back to the paper. North Korean Coffee Beans: Yeah, that’s where my money’s going.