but if I'm breaking out a knife to defend myself, its a sucky day...
That's an odd response. We all like knives and defensive tools, we study, we seek out good trainers and most of us have gotten into trouble a time or six.
I bought some polishing stones several years ago for the knives I had lying around. I shaped the edge of these knives, making the bevels uniform and parallel, and I polished these bevels until I could see my eyes in the reflection.
Why the big deal taking several hours for this? Well, that common knife or folder can be refined into the edge of a scalpel. Oh, that bully might call you a few names, but a flashy slice to his forearm usually teaches guys like this that politeness wins out every time.
I disagree. If some fool decides to pull a firearm just think of the movements.
First the idiot moves his jacket or shirt so he can feel around for the holster just off his kidney. The Mr. Brain has to dilly-dally around for the snap feature and if he remembered just how to release it. Since this is most likely just a few feet apart, a frightened jerk to a pistol's trigger might foolishly be fired into the floor beneath him. It is possible that fear, dirt, lack of cleaning and a frozen memory might put a bullet into the idiot's own foot.
Then again I can make a smooth, silent slice into the attacker's mid-section. Even a poor slash across his stomach will produce numerous amounts of blood mixed with filthy denim. Most guys drop the weapon they are holding.
Most buffoons fire more rounds than they can successfully hit. "Knives" never need to be reloaded...
Oh, and I carry a pistol, also. Supposedly I might need such a tool, but I've never pulled it in +25 years.
Very nice butterknife, Buckman. Oh, and I like the limited, and yet sharp teeth near the ricasso. I find that I do not use this segment of a knife very often, but when you need it you really need it...
Sounds like the old Jack the Ripper movies were inspirational to some folks at an early age.
It was never intended to be that way. When my dad wanted to build a suburban home in Menomonee Falls, a rural area where rich folks installed their kids, I wound up being instantly shoved into classes where a "Milwaukee dialect" was akin to speaking German. Fortunately I met my upcoming best friend, a handsome lad all the girls liked but didn't know he only cared about the TV series, "Whirlybirds."
Odd as this might sound, I keyed into this TV series to find out what it was about, and it turned out my dad liked the series, as well. I did not know at the time that I would soon learn how to move dangerous punch-presses and careless work-mates.
But the Milwaukee area was not to let me go. My dad worked for The Master Lock Company and they needed all of "the dumb kids" they could find. These kids were known as "truckers," a slang term for kids who still had they backs and no hernias, but were too stupid to realize that padlocks on tall skids were just shy of one ton. Fortunately, I was stupid too and the wheels of skids just fell into the youngsters jobs older guys demanded. Six summers, I was a trucker for six miserable summers.
On the somewhat brighter side, I still have the muscles I grew at the lock company. I never told anyone that my dad was one of the executives, and the blue collars guys were almost identical to the bikers I knew. Then again, I never had a day off, as I also worked at "31 Flavors" and "The North Hills Country Club." Laugh if you want, but even then Harleys were expensive...