Incidentally, still no pictures. I
know. If getting a programme to function correctly was akin to a
wrestling match, GIMP would have me face down sucking mat as it jumps
up and down on my spine. Useless piece of junk. You do get what you
pay for!
So anyway, recently I had a moment of
clarity. That little moment of clarity when you realize that not only
do you in truth, regardless of denial, have a hobby, but a hobby so
strong it turned into an obsession a while back. An obsession that
also is by wider society standards, a wee bit unusual. Okay, maybe
not a very small moment of clarity, but a highly efficient one.
It all started in a fairly mundane
fashion. I had neglected to pay any attention during laundry and now
my faithful battered penknife had ended up in the wash. No damage,
but it definitely needed an oiling and a bit of maintenance. Figuring
at the time that hey, whilst I've got the polishes out, let's have a
go over the weapon collection.
So I have a weapon collection. Or I
thought I did. It turns out I have a weapon arsenal. Sweet
lord, I could equip a couple small armies here and pit them together
to fight for my own amusement. I could overthrow a poorly supplied
country. I had so many there's no physical way I could ever
child-proof this place.
Somewhere down the line, as my sofa
disappeared under a growing pile of machetes, warhammers, axes and
swords, I realized I had unwittingly become That Guy. You know the
one. When the news flashes up about a horrible crime and as they lead
a suspect away, jumper hastily thrown over his face, a newscaster
breathlessly reports that they found in this freak loner's house
twenty-seven flails, thirteen katanas, six shotguns and three pistols
with ivory grips and you'll think 'Fuck me, he's a nutter, he's
guilty of whatever the media's making a big deal of this week.' I am
one girlfriend walking out of my crazy and I am That Guy. It worries
me.
And it's her damn fault. I know when
this started. We'd taken a trip out and I spied in the window of a
military surplus shop a ninjato. Now, I don't really like ninjatos as
the historian in me (that strictly speaking, he's in me as I am one)
sighs and rolls his eyes because they have no historical lineage;
they're a fake weapon made up about ninjas that was all pretty much
made up in the '80s. But it was sharp and pointy and looked seriously
menacing. And the conversation in my head went thus:
Me: WANT.
Logic. Oh hell nawh. No. No. Noooo.
You'll have your own fingers off in seconds.
Me: WANT.
Logic. Seconds, I say. Why do you even
need a sword?
Historian: And that one? Contemporary
sources make clear that far from...
Me: QUIET. WANT.
Frugality: May I put in here?
Logic: Please. Make him see sense.
Frugality: It's actually very cheap,
and a glance over suggests surprisingly well built and durable. I
don't think we could go wrong here.
Logic: Wha...?
Historian: Grudgingly I must add it's a
full tang at least, not liable to snap off at the hilt whilst
chopping of aforementioned fingers.
Me: GIMMIE.
Logic: NO. WE ARE NOT DOING
THIS. I APPEAL TO A HIGHER AUTHORITY.
At this point I turned to my
girlfriend and said, 'I want to buy that,' knowing full well she'll
tell me to stop acting like a man-child and do something productive
with my worthless life. That's one of the many benefits of being part
of a couple: the ability to out-source rational decisions. But then
she told me it looked cool and that was a great idea and...
Logic: Oh for fuck's sake.
She's enabled him now.
Me: I ALSO WANT THE THROWING
KNIVES AND THE CROSSBOW.
Libido: She said it was
cool! Get them all and maybe somehow somewhy it'll lead to sex
inexplicably!
Me: SOUNDS LIKE A PLAN!
Logic: Dear god...
… we get to today where I
have to stash a bunch of the nastier weapons under the bed out of a
very sensible precaution to not arm any burglars with my best
equipment. Where today I have to keep very up to date with the
Dangerous Weapons Act to make sure nothing I own falls afoul of it.
Where today I have to look up specialized targets as crossbows have
such a greater penetration factor than arrows that no local archery
club will allow their usage. Where today I'm still with my wonderful
girlfriend who occasionally has to put up with me unfairly and
arbitrarily assigning blame where it does not belong.
I remember a comedian back
in the day saying something along the lines of 'the internet is the
only place I know of where you ask for goat porn and it asks you
back, “What sort of goat?”' It's the same thing with these
dangerous weapons cluttering up the apartment. They have rules. No
display pieces; always battle ready. No katanas; they were so
over-hyped in the 90s / 00s I could not give less of a fuck. Short
weapons only; sooner or later I know I will be tempted to
experimentally swing one around when left alone and I do not want to
have to explain why we've suddenly gained holes in the wall. And like
all good obsessions, these rules are iffy at the edges. Sure, I won't
get display pieces. But other people do and weeeeell, they're display
pieces. They must be displayed! Sure short weapons only. Also his
longsword. And a keep looking at this traditional two-handed Scottish
claymore... But no katanas. Fuck that.
So I sat there, and time
slipped away as each and every weapon got a good looking over. Check
handle for damage. Check metals for rust. Use wire wool and brushes
on any found. Polish and oil metals and leather. Check over sheathe.
Re sheathe weapon. Place down and grab the next. Repeat. Again. And
again. And again. All the while lamenting to myself that yes, in a
shuffling-style zombie apocalypse scenario I may be the most well
armed person in fifty miles, in actual reality this sheer amount of
stop actually makes me rather weird. And someone that society would
not entirely unfairly rather have an eye or two kept on.
But you don't need to worry
about me. I could argue as a sane, upstanding member of this little
club we call society that I'm no threat, but please. Let me
argue pragmatics here. I spend a whole evening going over weapons
that quite clearly I have no idea how to use that were stored
properly and have never, ever been used or tested. A whole damn
evening, and that was them in prime condition. If I did want to
actually use them, that evening would turn into a whole damn week.
I'm a lazy idiot with a collection he can't operate properly. Believe
me. You're safe from me.
Besides, I'm way overdue to
trip and impale myself on one of these things anyway.
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