Wielding a 571B, she quickly prepared perfect, even banana slices and scattered them lazily on a bed of wheaties. But before I could slide my fingers to the window to open it, I beheld a horrifying scene. Creeping noiselessly down the wall, my heart beating in anticipation, I reached the kitchen window. My feet glided silently across the rooftops of the city until I alit upon her roof. How she would savor each bite of this lost luxury. How delighted she would be, I thought to myself, when she awoke in the morning and found a perfectly sliced banana, just waiting for her cereal and milk. One night, feeling sorry for a favorite client (a leading political and intellectual light who loved her bananas sliced just so), I decided to bestow upon her a gift. I felt pity for my clients, a pity that would soon prove the source of bitter irony, for it was THEY who should have pitied ME. A luxury service like mine, surely, would be the first to go in a global economic meltdown. When the calls first started to slow down, I blamed the economy. I gave back by slicing bananas for children's hospital patients, entertaining the young ones with my swift yet deft katana work. My list of clients included heads of state, famous actors, even a Kardashian. The one thing I could do - better than anyone - was slice a banana into perfect, even slices. I turned my back on my former life and set about making an honest living. Eventually, however, I could no longer ignore the ethical and moral implications of my trade. It's a cliche at this point, but a lifetime of ninjitsu training in a remote Japanese dojo had made me a silent and relentless killing machine. I guess I had what you would call a classic "ninja makes good" story. And finally, from a review – or short story – titled: “ This product ruined my life."
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