No good for anything. Not cutting steak or cheese or bread. Just for killing.

The way life is. Or death is. My granddad pulled it out of his trunk. I think he used it. I would have. In 1918.

What I absolutely do NOT have is my grandfather’s 1911 .45 caliber sidearm.

I have his old registration. Just not the gun.

I did have his uniform as a captain of infantry. I had his gas mask from 1918. The eye goggles were blurry. Maybe they were back then too. The leather was rotted. It smelled like mould. But for a moment I could imagine needing it. And imagine knowing it was a cheesy fake of a preventive.

From the same trunk, I got a French carbine which had a single bolt action and which a once good friend borrowed for a week forever (the way he borrowed my civil war rifle and other things good friends borrow in perpetuity), and I had two bayonets, one German, one French, and one of them nearly as nasty as the trench knife. And to top it off there was a WWI German helmet with a point on top. Ever seen one of those or tried one on?

It was too small on me. I was twelve. WTF.

There was a whole war in that trunk. Made me bleed inside.

Right now I just wish I had a fast draw holster and a 12-shot clip with hollow point bullets. I feel like I need them somehow.

But I don’t.

However. Do you know what happens when a trench knife intersects your abdomen? Good. You don’t want to know.