I ripped those loose floorboards up so hard the rusted nails shrieked, echoing off the bare walls of my cabin. Underneath the dust sat that heavy black iron trunk. Four combination locks, thick reinforced steel, looking like a fuckin' coffin buried under the house. I wiped three years of dust away with one heavy drag of my palm and dialed the numbers fast—my fingers moving like second nature, remembering the combo like it was engraved into my fuckin' nervous system. Click. Click. Click. Pop. I threw the lid back, and that sweet scent hit me: gun oil, leather, and polished carbon steel. Look, man... it wasn't a massive armory, okay? I didn't have heavy artillery or grenade launchers stuffed under there. It wasn't much, but for a guy like me? It was more than enough to turn the whole valley into a fuckin' graveyard. I reached in, and my eyes lit up like a kid on Christmas morning, bro. My chest went tight, a crazy, twisted grin spreading across my face. Because right on top, wrapped in oiled velvet, was my real passion. My blades. I don't give a fuck what nobody says about long-range rifles or spraying lead from a hundred yards away. Guns are loud, guns are sloppy, guns are for cowards who can't look a man in his eyes while his soul leaves his body. What I remembered... what made my blood run hot and my pulse jump right now... was the sweet, intimate, personal feeling of a close kill, sabes? Feeling the sudden tension in a fool's muscles when the steel bites, hearing that heavy, desperate gasp for air right against your ear, watching the light go out of their eyes up close and personal. That’s pure art, homie. I pulled out my collection—a custom fixed-blade bowie, my double-edged trench daggers with the brass knuckle grips, and a compact, serrated karambit designed for quick gut-hooking. Five custom blades total, lined up on the workbench like surgical instruments waiting for a doctor. I strapped 'em onto my chest, my hips, and my boots until I felt the weight of the steel pressed tight against my body. But as I looked down at those three fresh mounds of dirt out in the back dirt lot—where I’d just buried those three dead motherfuckers—a whole new thought hit me. Cruz. That miserable cocksucker didn't deserve a quick bullet from a long-range rifle, and he didn't even deserve one of my old blades. No, man. Cruz needed something special. A personalized message forged right here in my shop. I turned around and locked my eyes on my heavy-duty tool rack. Right in the middle hung my prized 24-inch drop-forged steel pipe wrench—heavy as a cinderblock, dense, and practically indestructible. That was the raw metal right there. "Oh yeah, bitch," I muttered, a dark laugh bubbling up in my chest. "I’m gonna make you something you’ll never forget." I fired up the forge, the high-heat blue flame roaring to life in the quiet cabin. I tossed that heavy wrench into the fire, waiting until the high-carbon steel glowed a blinding, angry orange-red. Then I laid it across my anvil and brought the heavy hammer down. CLANG! CLANG! CLANG! Sparks flew across the dark room like fireworks, bro! I hammered that beast out, drawing the metal long, wide, and thick. I wasn't making no dainty kitchen knife, man—I was forging a massive, brutal, Rambo-style survival bowie. A eleven-inch thick-spined cleaver-blade with aggressive saw-teeth carved into the spine, a deep blood groove running down the center, and a heavy brass handguard to protect my knuckles when I buried it deep into a ribs cage. I took it to the belt grinder, grinding the edge down until it was razor-sharp—sharp enough to shave the hair right off my arm, heavy enough to chop through bone in a single swing. I wrapped the thick tang in oil-tanned leather, wrapping it tight until the grip fit my hand like a glove. I held it up to the light of the forge, staring at my reflection in the polished, blackened steel. Homie... I've crafted a lot of things in my life, but this? This monster right here was the single best piece of work I’d ever brought into this world. A masterpiece forged out of pure spite, rage, and hard-earned steel. I slid my new masterpiece into a custom leather sheath right on my chest. I looked in the cracked mirror hanging by the workbench. The guy staring back wasn't the quiet dude fixing tools no more. The eyes were sharp, wild, and hungry. Órale... Cruz wanted a war? He was about to meet the blacksmith from hell. Time to go hunting, dog.

Cold Steel and Crazed Eyes