Gun made swords. Not little swords, neither, but big-ass swords. Swords that needed propeller fans and gas jets just so you could hold them up straight. Gun’s more naïve customers wanted giant, ornate katanas with blades that would cut you shaving if you were dumb enough and agile enough to shave with them. Gun obliged these orders with a sneer. He regarded such weapons as merely decorative items. The metallurgical truth of it was that at the relevant scales iron and steel can be bent, buckled, and torn, but they can’t be sliced, least of all by a simple straightedge. So when it came right down to it, in a real jump, a real honest-to-goodness jump, a some-mofucker-is-trying-to-end-you jump—well, in that particular kind of situation that genuine 12x scale replica Edo period wakizashi with the polished rosewood sheath that Gun sold you with a smile would be pretty goddamn useless. And in that particular kind of situation—the kind that’s for effin’ keeps, knomsayin’?—the other guy might well be one of Gun’s smarter customers, one of the ones who bought two dozen chainsaws welded to an I-beam—and Gun always held that there wasn’t nothing in the world more devastating than two dozen chainsaws on an I-beam.
Right now you are probably saying, “Hey Gun, aren’t you actually hindering the development of the whole scene by indulging mediocrity and equipping the misguided to practice styles that are at best showy and nostalgic distractions and at worst a regressive throwback to an irrelevant age that might skew the theoretical and practical advancement of the jump away from its ideal course?” Well, Gun says that you should shut your face. Gun could counter your argument, if he wished, but Gun doesn’t have to. Out on the scrape that sort of high-mindedness will get you exactly nowhere. So if you have a problem with Gun’s business ethics, you can meet him at Formerly-Known-As 139th and Lenox to hash it out—if you’ve got the guts—but right now Gun doesn’t have time for any of that bee-ess. Right now, given his current, shall we say ”particular” situation, Gun was quite glad that some of his customers buy useless swords, because his customers also usually tended to be his competition (see: Darwin, not Smith). Gun took some comfort in knowing that of a few of his customers were walking around town with a handicap strapped to one arm. Of course, it wasn’t one of those customers that was about to jump him at the next block, but still: some comfort.
Right now Gun could already hear the distinctive hiss of the thirty-two oxyacetylene injector torches that he had meshed into a ten-inch thick braid of rebar and sold to some anonymoused punk kid from Carol Gardens. The punk kid was perched on the low chunk of scrape to his left, right at the corner of the intersection that Gun was approaching. Gun kept walking but took his time. Let the kid waste his gas. It would probably be all over long before the fuel tank ran empty, but the kid might get reckless if he thought he was getting low on time. Gun loved reckless.