Perclusio (per-clu’-si-o): A threat against someone, or something.

A: If you don’t give me back my jar of pickles, I will kill you right here on the spot. I have a knife long enough to slice your aorta. I have a Glock I practiced with this morning. I have a piece of wire that will most likely cut off your head. I have a corkscrew that will screw into your ear. I have a hammer that will pound holes in your forehead. I have a straight razor that will slit your little size-15 throat. All my weapons are in my backpack. All I have to do is reach in and pull one out and then putting it to work trimming your mortality.

B: Jeez, your backpack must weigh a ton! It looks like you’ve got a sweatshirt stuffed in it, or maybe your little Teddy Bear. Ha ha. Anyway, what’s so important about these pickles? I can’t believe you would you would threaten to kill me over a stupid jar of pickles, or anything else.

A: These pickles are antique. My Great-Great-Grandmother made them for Union soldiers going off to battle. My ancestral cousin was one of those soldiers. He ended up being assigned to Headquarters and kept the pickles, which he considered a good luck charm. Eventually, the pickles were passed along to me, where I’ve taken care of them for 59 years. As you can see, they mean a lot to me. Please give them back.

B: ‘Please’? How cute. How polite. How full of shit. You’ll get your pickles back off the pavement dickweed. Unless—you want to buy them back. $50.00. Cheap.

A: Ok. My money’s in my backpack. I reached in and pulled out the first thing I got my hands on. I smashed him in the forehead, between the eyes, as hard as I could. The hammer went through his skull and lodged in his forehead. He started to crumple, but I caught the jar of pickles before it hit the pavement. This person was stupid. I told him my backpack was filled weapons, but he didn’t believe me and my ‘get the money’ ruse worked. I admit, I was lucky. It might have been the pickles.

This is the closest the family pickles had ever come to being destroyed. This guy had grabbed the pickle jar out of my hand when I was walking down the street. I vowed not to take the pickles for a walk ever again. I would keep them locked in their shrine on the mantle along with the urns, my model race cars, and the monthly bills.

Definition courtesy of “Silva Rhetoricae” (

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