Jagdkommando Tri-Blade by Microtech Knives

Don't carry this anywhere unless you really do want to spend time in prison, where you will not have this knife.

Don’t carry this anywhere unless you really do want to spend time in prison, where you will not have this knife.

To sum up my opinion of this interesting knife: very expensive but nearly Totally Useless BullShit (my TUBS category rarely gets used but that’s where this one goes).

The Jagdkommando Tri-Blade is pretty much useless for anything but stabbing. Impossible to sharpen because of the complex curves of the spiral blade and made in several grades of stainless steel suitable for pocket knives and display weapons, the edge on this knife might last longer than most stainless steel blades because it won’t be cutting anything around camp but air. If you want something technically more serviceable, buy the titanium model. The only practical thing in this knife is the hollow handle, into which you can stuff a small flat knife you can actually use for something.

Triple-edged knives are not new to the industry although the spiral form of this wicked idea does seem innovative. Also pointless, makes the knife even less effective for stabbing and would tend to rotate the grip in the hands should you actually try this on something like a ham hanging from a tree limb. Maybe back in the days of the Inquisition some creative interrogator came up with something like this but I’ve not seen evidence as yet. Three-edged knives were outlawed by the Geneva Convention after they became popular trench weapons in WWI. Common soldiers did much to outlaw this type of weapon and other modified knives during the war, without the help of governments, by paying especially horrible attention to any enemy caught with them. The old tri-edged knives were like spikes sharpened on three sides until the edges met and were especially effective at killing people slowly because they left a wound which would not close without surgery. Men wounded in this way died of blood loss. Although spike weapons are still legal bayonets for countries following the Convention’s rules of war, triple-edged weapons are not, and no doubt anyone caught with the Jagdkommando will find this out from whatever policeman discovers it. A smith I know in Arkansas who is still famous for his combat and hunting knives made a custom three-sided dagger for a Special Forces fellow early in the Vietnam War and there are still some versions of that around also. Not illegal to make or sell except in some states, so check your local laws before even buying such a thing, but if anyone uses them in a fight it’s a ticket to conviction for serious crimes, even if you use it in self-defense. Judges and juries see nothing but criminal intent in a weapon like this. This is malice aforethought in the form of a knife. I won’t even hang the Jagdkommando Tri-Blade on my weapons wall, and it does include some fanciful blades.


King of the Bus Station — And Being Left Behind

Not much defense against zombie hordes.

The bus station at Butte, Montana, provided a very poor defense against zombie hordes. Also, five of eight overhead lights were out.

What bothered me the most about riding on Greyhound/Miller/Jefferson/Arrow/Salt Lake Express was not sitting on the bus for three days with nothing to do. I can handle that, I look out the window and wonder why the pioneers ever came out this way, maybe it had something to do with gold. Reading is impossible, too much bouncing of the bus. Wifi is unreliable and unavailable on most of the bus lines. If you have a laptop with games, maybe you can force that to happen but I only saw one person try it out of twelve days of travel. Lots of people have cell phones and are on them constantly but I can’t comprehend this. Mostly I sleep, to the point that it happens suddenly and without my permission and I wake up unknown hours later with my head dangling between my knees. I listened to podcasts I downloaded to my iPod, and that is actually the best entertainment I can recommend for the bus. Otherwise you need to be unconscious. I still don’t know how or why, but I always woke up a few minutes before the bus driver took the turn to the next rest stop, it was instinctive. Maybe I sensed burgers.

The bus is better than driving. But I did not like seeing all the people who got left behind, partly because I don’t want to be in that situation myself someday and partly because I felt sorry for them, whatever the reason they got left.

There was the tough-looking fellow who got on at a little station in Wyoming, the only passenger who boarded there. I watched him say goodbye to a young lady with a little kid and I assume they are a family. He had a lot of trouble leaving, kept going back to the car for another goodbye hug, and the bus driver was being tolerant even though we were already behind. Then at the last moment the poor dude realized he didn’t have his cell phone, and his girl friend rang it so he could track it down somewhere in the bus station. I thought he was probably going to be trouble because by this time he was ignoring the driver and intentionally walking slowly. I was surprisingly correct.


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Losing It on the Greyhound Bus

Attention! young grasshopper! Attention!

Attention! young grasshopper! Attention!

I knew there would be trouble as soon as I asked the ticket guy in the Butte, Montana bus station for a luggage tag. He asked where I was going and I said, “Terre Haute. Indiana.” He looked at me like I was speaking some ancient Mayan dialect or just kidding around, apparently expected me to tell him where I was really going. I said, “No, seriously, Terre Haute, Indiana. It’s in the United States.” The driver of the bus I’d just disembarked happened to be passing by and turned and laughed. This did not bode well but I thought I’d be able to handle it.

I’d been through this before, early in the fall I made this same trip and returned with two bags, one with my personal items in it and the second with fifty pounds of wonderful Idaho Russet Burbank potatoes tucked into odd pieces of clothing for protection. I was traveling full fare then so I was allowed two bags, fifty pounds each, and there’s just no reason to come back from Idaho without as many potatoes as you can legally carry. In Butte, that time as we were in process of boarding the bus, the driver looked at my ticket and saw that I was going to Terre Haute and shook his head sadly as he motioned me to step aside. I had mixed feelings about this, it was sort of like being shunted to a different boxcar at Auschwitz, you don’t know whether to run or be relieved. But when he sorted out the other passengers he asked me to go with him and find where my luggage was on the bus. This seemed odd but I helped, and sonofagun, my luggage was nowhere to be seen. I’d had it in my hands only moments before! and finally the driver spotted two bags on carts shoved out of the way in the loading zone, groaned and said, “What the hell are they doing there?” and loaded them on the bus himself while the baggage handler fellow stood by with an expression that said, Whut? It’s not my job, no one knows where Terre Haute is. So that time my bags came through to Denver along with me, and all three of us passed safely from the Jefferson Lines to Greyhound where they make you transfer your own luggage and now I completely understand why. I’m the one who knows where I’m going.

where i thought my luggage might be going

where i thought my luggage might be going

But this second time my driver was dealing with a greater issue and my luggage was on its own, so it didn’t work out quite the same way. The last guy in the ticket line apparently had some sort of problem, possibly had to do with not wanting to provide a photo ID, which is required now and although at many stops this is totally ignored, any driver who really does his job is supposed to check this. All I know is that something happened that wasn’t pleasant, because this poor fellow walked up to the bus door all sad and repentant and the driver whooshed it closed right in his face. If you want to ride the bus, be aware of this, the drivers are totally in charge and if you piss them off they don’t have to let you on the bus. Just before we left the driver was talking with the station manager about this issue, and I think I remember what he said fairly accurately.


“No! I’m not taking him! He’s fucking lucky I didn’t fucking choke him out! Tell him he’s the one who’s fucked! Fuck me, hell, tell him Fuck You!” So I figure something unpleasant might have entered that conversation and drivers today are stressed anyhow. (About eight hours later when the driver calmed down he phoned home to the station and let the manager know that IF the young fellow had his shit together tomorrow, he’d let him on the bus when he came back through.)
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