Scalpel, stat

This will end up as a part of something larger, I think. But here it is for now, in all its unfinished, unpolished glory.
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He was already moving before the cold clink of ceramic had signaled a disaster. He snatched up the manuscript and ran to the paper cutter on his design table. Only the bottom, right corner of the paper had been contaminated so far, but it was leaching upward and outward, like blood on a white t-shirt. He placed the stack on the cutter, positioned it as exactly as his haste would allow and sheared the offending corner from the rest of his valuable work. He held the manuscript aloft and fluffed the pages, satisfied that he had caught the infection in time. He felt like a surgeon, having successfully removed a nonessential limb before the cancer had a chance to spread. He would treat himself to a celebratory bourbon.
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Playing on my iTunes at this very moment:
Souls of Mischief, 93 'til Infinity