I load baby kidnap essentials into the cart, and check that the blanket is not made out of some poisonous flammable Chinese blend sent over here to wipe out half-Occidental-half African American races in their infancy. It’s not, and it’s very cute.
Thankfully, I don’t need guns and ammo, or shoes. Oh dear God! People buy their shoes here? Crocks. The ugliest things since oil spills.
I walk farther and farther and stumble upon a grocery store!
Baby food, baby food, baby food, water, water, water, juice, juice, juice and look here, green tea! This place is actually quite surprising. Liquor? Now, I would be totally impressed. Wine and beer, I’ll take it, and the corkscrew. Who knows how long this journey will be?
I roll us back to camping to buy a good knapsack. I may need it. And then I get distracted.
“The Bowie knife with the antler handle. May I see that one?” I ask the young man who appears from behind the tent display.
A baby in my left arm I handle the knife to feel its balance. I think this is weighted for throwing if skinning Henry alive didn’t actually complete the job.
“Does this come with a scabbard?”
“Two styles actually, one is tooled leather and the other is a quick dry mesh that people like a lot.”
“I’ll see both then. Thank you.”
“Baby, baby, baby, now I’m going to put you in this basket with your new sheep and rainbows blanket because Mama B has to look at a big ole knife. Now, don’t cry.” I lay Angelica carefully on top of baby food, wine, and beer, chips and salsa. The Essentials. We’ll stay alive ’til morning.
I slip open my belt and thread the leather scabbard through the loops and slide in the long shiny knife. This feels good. The handle feels rough, but nice.
Then I spy inside the case the perfect blade for whatever business may come my way next. The sexiest, meanest knife I’ve ever seen, the Ultimate Extractor Bowie Red Camo knife with an eight-inch devastating looking blade.
“That one, please.” I unthread the antler handled Bowie knife and strap this very big, very sharp, very wicked looking blood red from hilt to menacing tip – killing tool on my belt. Lifting it out of its scabbard I wrap my fingers around the grooves of the handgrip that fit me perfectly. I thumb along the fiercely sharp steel edges running along the top that are serrated with terrible looking teeth. All I can do is say,
“I’ll take it.”
As I’m leaving I ask the security guard at the door, “What’s the state law in Washington for carrying a knife on your belt?”