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"What the fuck is this?" Schuldig says, hefting the axe curiously.
I forebear to make the obvious answer. "Germanic warriors used axes," I say. "It adds authenticity."
"Authenticity," he drawls, and swings it back and forth. "That's what they pay for now, is it? This is pretty fucking light."
"It's a theatrical prop. I found it."
"You stole it," he says with glee, swinging it with more abandon.
"I did not," I say with dignity. "I borrowed it from a small drama company."
"Yeah," he grins. "You stole it. You could paint me fighting off the lustful legionaries before they overpower and ravish me."
"Precisely," I smile.
"Die, motherfucking Roman scum!" he yells, and flings the axe at me. I duck, and blink as Schuldig gasps and covers his mouth like a surprised child. "Cocksucker," he says, awed. I turn, and see the axe embedded in the doorframe.
"Oh," I say faintly. "They did say something about their last production closing after an unfortunate occurance. And that the props manager left precipitously for the continent the same night."
We look at each other, and back at the axe, covered in our fingerprints. That night we drop it into the Thames.