07/27/08
The Strings were a heavily armed mafia-ish family, mustachioed rebels in 
the wilderness of Montana. I was sent to infiltrate their group and 
assassinate the leader. Well, it turns out, the first day on the job was 
the boss's wedding. It's hard to hide a gun when you're naked, but I 
managed somehow.

Later that night I was assigned guard duty. Sure enough, as soon as I 
was alone, the boss's new wife showed up. She needed to go to the 
outhouse, and women required a guard at all times when outside of the 
compound's main building. At least that was the explanation. The snow 
squeaked under our boots as we trudged along in the starlight. As we 
rounded the corner of some sort of animal pen, she suddenly turned and 
stuck out her thumb.

"Strings never cross each other." That was the saying behind their 
secret handshake. Instead of clasping hands like normal, you first 
pressed your thumbs together and then aligned the tips of all four 
fingers so that none of them crossed. I guess I had my fingers lined up 
right because her nails were dug in the pad part pretty good. She must 
have been satisfied, for she pushed me away and gave out a whoop of 
delight. I hung on tightly and we spun around each other in the 
darkness.