all good reasons to carry the most concentrated pepper spray you can get your hands on...add to the above accounts of teenage knifeplay the laissez faire attitude several states adopted just today regarding carrying concealed weapons. sure, permits are required (which isn't even really a good screener even with the checks), but it leads to more people carrying weapons that don't have authorization as well.
spray is better than a stun gun...less of a chance of missing...
although, if an assailiant is intoxicated enough, neither pepper spray or a stun gun will have much effect...which is a good reason to learn some martial arts, perhaps Krav Maga, a discipline that emphasizes disarmament of a combatant.
in this city there is also increased crime perpetrated by teens, especially in the summer.
I overheard a small boy and his mother walking and talking today. the kid urgently says, "I want a kill suit," and the mother says, "a
kill suit, what's that?"
I don't know wtf he meant either...
Kids and their misadventures with penknives figure into quite a few tales by Dostoyevsky, but the one this thread particularly calls to mind is what's related in a minor subplot of
The Brothers Karamazov:
You must realise that he was fearfully worked up by what had happened already. The boys, seeing I’d given him up, set on him and taunted him, shouting, ‘Wisp of tow, wisp of tow!’ And he had soon regular skirmishes with them, which I am very sorry for. They seem to have given him one very bad beating. One day he flew at them all as they were coming out of school. I stood a few yards off, looking on. And, I swear, I don’t remember that I laughed; it was quite the other way, I felt awfully sorry for him; in another minute I would have run up to take his part. But he suddenly met my eyes. I don’t know what he fancied; but he pulled out a penknife, rushed at me, and struck at my thigh, here in my right leg. I didn’t move. I don’t mind owning I am plucky sometimes, Karamazov. I simply looked at him contemptuously, as though to say, ‘This is how you repay all my kindness! Do it again if you like, I’m at your service.’ But he didn’t stab me again; he broke down; he was frightened at what he had done; he threw away the knife, burst out crying, and ran away. I did not sneak on him, of course, and I made them all keep quiet, so it shouldn’t come to the ears of the masters. I didn’t even tell my mother till it had healed up. And the wound was a mere scratch. And then I heard that the same day he’d been throwing stones and had bitten your finger — but you understand now what a state he was in! Well, it can’t be helped: it was stupid of me not to come and forgive him — that is, to make it up with him— when he was taken ill. I am sorry for it now. But I had a special reason. So now I’ve told you all about it... but I’m afraid it was stupid of me.
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