It’s the thing that creeps into your feet
I’m a joiner. Send me a new site or service, and I’ll spend a happy couple of hours setting up an account and filling out my profile.
So I was helpless against the allure of Sock Wars III, the third annual “extreme knitting” competition in which you assassinate your assigned target by … knitting them a pair of socks. Over a thousand folks just like me signed up for the competition. Well, like me except that they’re all much faster at knitting socks.
I started knitting furiously as soon as the pattern was released last Friday. Over the weekend I turned both heels on my two-at-a-time Detonators. That’s so much faster than I’ve ever knit socks — they usually take me months — that it qualifies as a miracle.
But five-day socks are nothing but collateral damage on the battlefield. A few speedy, life-deprived knitters whipped out their pairs in twenty-four hours and sent them on the second day of competition. My own personal assassin finished her weapon over the weekend and sent them today.
And that means I’m dead already. I might be able to finish my socks and send them to my target before the package arrives in my mailbox — especially since it’s coming from England — but it doesn’t matter. When you receive a pair of socks, you’re toast.
So the only way to win this war is to somehow arrange for your assassin to be killed before they finish your socks. And then for the person who inherits those socks to be killed before they finish them. And so on and so on until you are the last knitter standing.
It’s not so much a war as a series of unlikely lucky breaks. And they won’t be happening to me.