Seattle. South industrial area. Winter. Fog. Cold. Dark. Miserable.
Approaching the graffiti scarred, dilapidated building in the rough and tumble, mud and gravel district of our Emerald City doing my cold calls, I didn’t fail to notice the chain linked fence topped by razor wire. I would have noticed the deadly wire anyway without the barking German shepherds scaling the fence to draw it to my attention.
Approaching the mangled, war-torn door that must have been brought over from a 15th century Highlands castle that suffered a stinging defeat by the Huns – strong enough to stop the bowman’s strongest arrow then, thick enough to withstand an RPG now – I (luckily) saw the bright red sign posted (conveniently) at my eye level.
SOLICITORS WILL BE SHOT.
SURVIVOR’S WILL BE SHOT AGAIN.
Forgetting to Kevlar up before leaving the house that day, I crudely channeled Shakespeare:
Neither a solicitor
nor a survivor
will I be.
For with my feet
I’ll beat a retreat
to fight another day.
Are you packing?: It pays to read. And trust your gut. Choose your battles wisely. You’ll face them every day.