Stinger

I know it's really creepy that I name my knives--that I even have them, but hey, I'm Dusk. I've earned it.

What started it all was Stinger. It has nothing to do with Lord of the Rings. It's a Police issue Spyderco knife with a 4" fully serrated blade and partially sharpened spine. That's three kinds of illegal in several states. When I was living OUT IN the desert, I didn't have the luxury of leaving valuables behind. So I took them with me everywhere. Including school. I have never drawn a knife (or gun for that matter) on a person. I have used weapons on vicious stray dogs. And I collected nearly a third of my knives from jerks who thought they could take me on with a knife.

My few friends often joked about me and my formidable knife and "the unlucky fool who crossed my path". Somehow we got to referring to such a situation as me Stinging them, with my Stinger. I think it had something to do with the knife having the word POLICE etched into it.



When I was living in an abandoned van in the middle of the desert, Stinger came in very handy. It got quite abused. Even though knives are just another tool, you shouldn't use knives as screwdrivers or saws unless the need is dire, and even then... Thankfully, somebody actually tried to use a Leatherman knock-off utility knife on me before I got too stupid with Stinger.

Stinger was unfortunately sitting on the table out of reach the night Cruizer went possessed on me. I don't know, I just have a ton of memories with it. It's been a part of me for almost as long as my chain, Pacer. Yes, I named it too. I lost Stinger in late 2002, when I was just starting to excel in my studies to become, of all things, a minister.

On my visit to the West Coast, my sister returned Stinger to me. She was working with the son of the lady I rented a room from back then. He had stolen it. My sister took it back. How? Well, she IS my sister :)

It feels good to have it back. Between seeing all my old spiritually strong friends out West and getting back this virtual talisman, I feel I can really have success returning to the only job that ever gave me a sense of joy and purpose.

Smoke and a Pancake?

Sandsurfer and I used to have this thing. It never really became a full fledged "code" or language, but it was a collection of phrases we used to discreetly communicate about our customers while in their presence. One phrase I remember quite fondly is: "Smoke and a pancake?" This was adopted from Austin Powers Goldmember. The part where Goldmember offers Austin every conceivable IHOPish combo from smoke and a pancake to bong and a blitz. After Austin refuses all of his options, Goldmember states: "There is no pleasing you." That's the meaning we adopted. When a customer could not be pleased, we would remind/notify each other of the fact with that phrase.

I introduced that one to the truck, but SandSurfer introduced: "On the other hand...she wore a glove." YOU figure it out!

Camp II

The paternity test proved that "DewClaw" was my father. Which meant he had a lot of back-owed money to pay. Not to us, we got ours via welfare years before. Now California wanted restitution.

Seeing as how we were living illegally in a condemned building, I had to return to my grandparents.


Did I mention how we were discovered by the marshals? We were in this early 1900s apartment complex. It was being run by a Mexican family. We actually payed rent. We had water from a well. Usually it was contaminated. The electricity was piped in through a complicated arrangement. I didn't examine it too closely.

There was this crazy lady living in the apartments across from us. She was married to this ding-bat who lost his kids to his former wife. Later, his son was literally eaten by a German Shepard while in her care and keeping. The boy lived, but they couldn't do anything with his original face after digging out of the dog's gut. I digress.

The crazy lady. She did a long stint in a psych ward somewhere having murdered her former husband by slashing his throat. Now she was married again. Living across from us. Allowed to roam freely while her ding-bat husband scrounged for work. One day, she can't handle the hyper-abundance of cock roaches anymore. She decided to kill them with a blowtorch that was handy. The only thing that survived on their side of the complex was the three Metallica CDs I loaned to ding-bat. I still have them in my possession!