I have and addiction to knives.
It seems as if I also have an addiction to letting these knives tear my flesh.
It all started back in the 70's when I first saw that glorious and shiny object sitting pretty in the window of the paper shop in Lochee. Even at a the tender age of seven I knew I had to have it - my first knife, a double blade folder with a cream colored handle and a bit of jigged bone for grip. All that sexy metal for a mere 50 pence.
As the blood streamed down my face and my mother tended to the gaping hole in my forehead I wondered if I would ever see that little beauty again, sadly I did not.
Running at full speed at an imaginary enemy with both blades open, heart and soul determined to defend the homeland from such a treacherous invader....I tripped over a rock and planted the brand new blade into the noggin right between the eyes!
My first knife and my first scar.
The list of injuries from beloved blades could take up an entire page so I will offer up a few of the more memorable.
I have a nasty V shaped scar on my left thumb from trying to cut a pipe while said thumb was still present.
I have a scar on my chin from a evil box cutter which housed a dirty razor blade...can you say tetanus!
I also have a reminder on my forearm of the time I was camping and decided to chop firewood with a very nice hatchet which had a beautiful cherry wood handle with ivory inlay and of course a bit of my blood.
One warm summer evening back in the 80's I was part of a convoy on its way to a gang brawl in the beach town of Ft. Lauderdale, Florida. If any of you out there read Smugglers Blues part 1 you will remember the somewhat illegal ongoings of young Sausage and his best pal Ecky Z aka the Greek assassin.
On this particular warm summers eve the young Sausage and his trusty pal were out cruising for the gang known as "The Jacks."
You see Ecky Z was currently giving Greek biology lessons to the ex-girlfriend of the leader of the Jacks and the leader of the Jacks did not like his ex-girlfriend receiving biology lessons from anyone other than himself. The unfortunate gang leader had his associates jump my friend as he left work, leaving Ecky Z with less blood and four flat tires.
Later that evening as I sat in the passenger seat of the lead vehicle my hands shook and my belly emptied itself several times. As I looked down at my weapons of choice for the pending scrap I had in my lap the following:
1. A pair of brass knuckles with a hollow front that embedded a five inch folded blade.
2. A Rambo type survival knife that had a fixed seven inch blade in black titanium.
3. An Italian para military knife that was a single cut piece of steel with a leather handle
At the end of that warm summers evening the blades were not dampened with enemy blood as I wisely left them in the car but another scar was added to the list, it's the one where the club landed above my left eyebrow and reminded me just how warm and sticky the fluid of life was and made me think what would have happened If I brought the blades to the fight. I shudder to think of me bleeding coupled with my Scottish temper while chasing a bunch of punks down beachfront avenue at 1:15 in the a.m.
Luckily I survived the rambunctiousness and stupidity of youth and can tell the stories of my scars
(I have a post half written on them....coming soon.)
I have over the years added a few more scars not because of gang related violence but because of clumsiness which leads me to the point of this entire post.
While cutting open the plastic sheathing on a new mattress I sliced my finger and undoubtedly added to my collection of stories.
I still have over 100 knives, you see I have collected, bought and sold them over the decades, always looking for that one piece to finish the collection. That being said the knife I used to slice the finger was broken!
It was a carbon blade folder with a broken lock back but it was the first one I grabbed to do the job.
If you are squeamish leave now because the photos of the cut and the sutures are below. I don't know why I took the photos of the blood soaked rags and then decided to paint with it, if you are a shrink please advise.
Those of you out there that love the blades as much as I do...well you know the story.
|They almost called me 9.75 sausage fingers|
|Not great for nose picking!|
|The cluprit and the evidenvce of my failed field dressing|
|My attempt at Pollock - a Sausage original|