You try not to make eye contact, mumble to the clerk, "Uh, 12345," talking quietly in case you're wrong, give yourself the option of playing it off. Surprisingly, the clerk doesn't answer you, simply smiles soulessly, like we do in ID pictures, and hands you a small box wrapped in paper and surrounded with metal twine. As you walk it back to your car, you notice that there's no return address on the package. On the way home, you question this fact - Isn't that required by law now? Wasn't that the answer to the anthrax crisis from years ago? You scoff to yourself, thinking, "Yeah right, like people can't just make up fake return addresses anyway," and recall the time that you sent a picture of yourself to your friend with a Beavis and Butthead poster in the background. You hilariously put the name of your friend's arch nemesis and the address to your old high school in the upper left corner. Oh how clever you once were! Maybe this is a many-years-later payback from that friend? Hmm, you'll have to open it and see. Back inside, you stare at the box, realize that the twine requires a special tool, something beyond the mini scissors that you keep in the kitchen's junk drawer. You're not exactly the most handy person in the world, so you don't have a lot of hardcore supplies in the house. What should you find to open the package?