We can all smell the odor of death in the hot, hash desert winds of history that are cruelly blowing on us, and associated metaphors. It is not just from the obvious: crazed mobs of mongrel dogs burning and smashing; as James noted in his article: “Fighting Back Against Mob Violence,” he is an old white guy doing his best to mind his own business, but he is still hunted. He doesn’t have to take it to the streets like Alt Right faggots and fairies, but still he is hunted, just for being what he is. Just for being. The color of one’s skin, alas, has become the color of one’s uniform of war.
Hence, James keeps low during day light, because the “hunt has gone so crazy that whites are attacked during the day as much as at night.” So at night, when he gets his supplies, which he backpacks in, he carries a “big fucking stick,” which is excellent advice: walk softly as a grey man, and carry a stick sufficient to “Hulk smash.”
Being older than James, and having a bad back from decades of powerlifting/martial arts etc. I took the added precaution of getting a doctor’s certificate to be able to carry “a large stick or walking staff.” Although the police do not usually pay much attention to walking sticks, even in his severe anti-weapons jurisdiction, my sticks are so badass that they could. I have acres of feral olive trees and need to remove them. The timber is cut and dried, some for burning and the best suitable sticks I keep for tool handles and weapons. Olive sticks, when the wood dries out in about 12 months, make fine weapon-walking sticks, quite suitable for self-defense. In what is now Italy, olive wood has been used for weapons by peasants for hundreds of years, both for personal defense and by shepherds defending their flocks of sheep from wolves using heavy staffs (Paranza Lunga):
I have never used one against a human opponent, but I have killed large feral dogs that have attacked my sheep, smashing their skulls with one thump. Human heads would be thinner, but our goal should be to walk quietly and just not be there when trouble comes. Homework: re-read Jeremy Bentham’s 15 Actionable Tips: Staying Safe During Times of Civil Unrest-Bearing Arms,” sound advice that Alt Right wankers need to absorb; less jacking off watching anime porn (I Googled it and blow me over, it exists), and more manning up.
If firearms ownership is restricted for one reason or another in your jurisdiction, or if you cannot own a firearm because of prior convictions (two strikes for me), apart from your big fuckin’ stick, you need a close personal weapon, something that can be glued to you. The Medieval European masters such as George Silver, who respected the quarterstaff, recommended carrying a shorter personal weapon, such as a dagger: Paradoxes of Defence: http://www.pbm.com/~lindahl/paradoxes.html. But we can do better.
In the apocalypse I would go for a machete with heft, but during this twilight time, I make mine, Bowie. I have kukris from Nepal which are excellent, far superior to the ones championed by the commercial knife rip-off merchants. But a good Bowie should cut like a razor, chop like a cleaver, and stab like a sword, and not let you down in a shit storm. So I make mine, Bowie! Who am I? Just an old guy with a Bowie, a silent loner in the church of Bowie. If I was into clichés, I would say that a good knife is better than a wife – but I won’t, ‘cause the line sucks shit. But a good beer is better than any woman: if you pour a beer right, you’ll always get good head, and you know when you’re the first one to pop a beer. And for the older guys; beer is always wet.
Bill Bagwell, author of Bowies, Big Knives, and the Best of Battle Blades (2000), copped a lot of shit during the 1980s for his “Battle Blades” column in Soldier of Fortune Magazine. I remember the articles fondly (and did not buy the book) because he championed the Bowie as the best, most effective and efficient fighting blade, and he thought (within reason), the bigger the blade the better. It is of course madness to expect to enter a knife fight and emerge unsliced and diced, and it is acknowledged that in urban areas knives are used in sneaky fuckin’ ways, such as stabbing one in the back, as one walks by. Still, if this unfortunate event did happen, it makes sense to me to have in one’s possession the most bad ass blade one can have, not some over-priced tactical folder that would only be good for getting stuck meat out of your dog’s teeth. It may be inconvenient and heavy to carry, but, tough shit. This is war.
For those of us who do not dwell in the urban shitholes, a large Bowie knife on one’s side when one is in the scrub, is a great comfort, a true and loyal friend, radiating Americana, as red-white-and-blue as other iconic personal weapons such as the Colt .45 Peacemaker or the 1911 series of auto pistols, which I would have if I only could: https://survivalblog.com/reloading-and-accurizing-for-the-45-colt-revolver-part-2-by-papa-bear/. I have encountered scumbags in the bush who would have robbed if not murdered me and got away with it, but for 12 inches of 440 C sharpened steel that made them think again. The Wolf Creek movies are based on backpacker murders in this country (https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Backpacker_murders), and plenty of psychos are on the run head into the Badlands of scrub, just as they did in the 19th century.
The club of Herakles was thought to be of Olive. In any event in ancient Hellas an olive rod was a common weapon as was the staff.