You pick the staple gun. Now you'll be set in case you need to fasten one thing to another. You wave the staple gun over your head and fire off a few rounds in celebration.

*click*

Hmm, weapon's dry. The janitor must've been doing some serious stapling before he was mauled to death by that creature you set upon him. You scrounge through the messy shelves and drawers in search of more staples. You find a few boxes, but those staples are for puny, office staplers. You need thick, manly staples. The kind American soldiers used to staple the American flag to Iwo Jima. The kind of staples that you need a permit to buy. As luck would have it, you find a box of such staples beneath a pile of the lesser staple boxes.

Through some energetic finagling, you manage to pop open the correct compartment and slide a row into the chamber. The slide gets stuck as you move it back into place, but a good push gets it to-

*p-chunk!*

Ouch. Looks like you forgot to put the safety on.

The staple is in there good. Real good. In fact, you can't move your hand off your leg. Damn, those were good staples. Apart from the pain, you're troubled by the profuse bleeding. Normally, staple wounds don't bleed until after the staple remover has done its job. You check the staple box again for some clue.

Oh, that's right. You had completely forgotten that the manly glue used to hold this particular brand of manly staples together contains a very manly anticoagulant. It was all over the news after a pair of migrant workers got into a playful staple gun fight and bled out in front of a preschool. The resulting public outcry is what led to retailers requiring permits to purchase these staples.

Not one to dwell on past mistakes, you ignore your bleeding hand and leg, and go back to looking for the correct item to take from the janitor's office. Eventually, you figure it out, and you move onto the next part of the story, which takes a fascinating turn which surprised even me, the narrator. Yes, things are looking good, until you pass out from loss of blood mere moments before solving the mystery of your great uncle's estate. Your relatives find you, but decide against giving you any of your blood after seeing that you stapled your hand to your leg like an idiot. The hospital staff feels much the same way.

FAILURE IS A "STAPLE" IN STORIES LIKE THIS! START OVER!!!