Well, of course, I am.
I’m from Alabama.

Thankfully, I’ve never heard those words from a law enforcement officer though there were times that I was puckered up pretty tight during a stop. I have heard similar words from others, like “Watch it, the sob has a….”

I’ve been a concealed carry for pretty much my whole life. I even got around to getting a paper from the sheriff a few years ago saying I could even though I always thought that the natural order of things gave me the right. And this other piece of paper just confirmed it.

My concealed carries aren’t always guns. My first, and still, primary is a knife.
For over forty years now, the first thing I do in the morning after putting on my pants is to stick my knife in my pocket. Seldom has it been a gentleman’s penknife.
My current knife, a Kmart special,

is a seven inch folding lock back. Opened, it serves to gut and quarter a deer or peel a noon time apple (Yeah, I wash it), strip insulation off wire or cut an attacker.
Closed, it can add heft to a clinched fist

In an effort to keep an edge on it after my abuse, I tend to wear out sharpening rods following the old adage that a dull knife cuts you only half as deep as a sharp one, but still hurts like hell.
Or something like that.
The three inch blade is stamped Imperial Ireland stainless steel. While I don’t know if that is good, bad or indifferent, I do know that it has been a good enough knife to take over five years of my use and abuse and still take an edge. That‘s a much longer lifespan than most of my knives. Or my equipment, in general. Just look at my old rabbit hunting boots and hats

The first knife to hit my pocket came from a Easter basket that contained the recycled tin can “made in Japan” folding knife with a genuine simulated mother of pearl handle made with that new miracle material “plastic”.
I went outside to get a branch from the pear tree since a knife isn’t any good to a six year old without something to cut on. I had already learned from prior experiences with my mother’s good paring knives that the house and furniture were off limits. The non locking blade did it’s job and didn’t lock. As memory serves it took only a single stitch to close that particular wound on my pointing finger. Disappearing in all the excitement of getting the leak to stop, that knife mysteriously turned up years and years later in 2’s possession. He said he put it up in a box until he thought that I was mature enough to get it back, but finally gave up and gave it to me last year.

You can tell a lot about a man by his hands. How the course of his life has gone. Mine are a catalog of stories, face saving tales and out-right lies . Generally brought on by the close proximity of sharp edges, bad depth perception and a theory gone bad, my trophy’s are about equally divided between my hands. I was the kid who touched and I have the scars and story’s to prove it.