By far one of the most difficult things I’ve had to do here lately in preparation for the move I finished today: packing away all my larger fighting knives.
Sure, I still have my pistols and my rifles available to me — and a few smaller knives, including a “semi-auto” retractable and an “executive letter opener” made out of hardened resin, intended to beat metal screeners. And yes, my bear traps are still quite ready to take a limb if needs be. Too, I still have any number of baseball bats and fighting sticks that I could do some damage with in a pinch — and my crossbow isn’t ever that far away that I can’t make a dash for it and plant an expanding tip blade formation into an eye at medium range.
— But there’s something so incredibly tactile about a K-bar or a Cold Steel Japanese edged knife that makes locking them away in a taped-up old Corona box quite upsetting, like putting a loved pet up for adoption, or, say, not being able to stab some meddlesome solicitor offering “free” roof inspections repeatedly in the trunk and neck with enough force that you can literally cut bone on your way to seeing him fall dead at your feet, the spray of blood and the emptying of entrails or neck sinew a warm, viscous balm to the hand, the wrist, and — if you’re especially blessed and especially skilled — the elbow, the upper bicep and triceps region, and even the front delts.
Ah. Such poignancy! Such sorrow! Such a goddamn shame.
Though on the glass-half-full side, I did just find a Guinness hiding in the back of the fridge! So there’s that.