Here is the knife that started my life long love for sharp objects and this was the knife that my father never let me hold in my hands when I first grew attracted to it at the tender age of 3.
I recently found it again at the bottom of my father's tool box after my dad's death about 5 months ago and I couldn't help but remember the story behind this knife, the story my father told me many years ago in my youth when I first asked him about it. This was the knife that stabbed him in his ribs before I was born...
The story goes that one day, he was riding his Harley down the highway, driving to a bar one summer day in California. As he arrived, he was greeted by some of the Hells Angels bikers and they got on talking and ended up having a good time, my father befriending some of the original Hells Angels' founders ("They were laid back old timers with love for motorcycles, way before the next several generations of members turning the Hells Angels to crime"). My father became quite liked by the Hells Angels members down the next few years to the point where some of the younger members of the Hells Angels invited him to become a member. Dad almost said yes except "I couldn't tolerate the fact that they discriminated women, treated them like trash, giving them no respect so I declined their offer". Apparently that was the wrong thing they wanted to hear from my father for the following week, my father came home and saw his Harley bike all torn up, major parts missing, leaving just the frame left. Needless to say, dad was pissed.
Dad found out that it was the four Hells Angels guys that asked him to be a member that has done that to his bike. So a few days after the destruction of dad's bike, he rode his other Harley into town and saw one of the members walking down the sidewalk and dad took out his crow bar and revved up his motorcycle faster, speeding towards the man swinging his crowbar as hard as he can at the man's back/shoulder. The man fell down instantly and dad stood above him, holding the crow bar and said, "Don't you ever...touch my Harley ever again. Do you understand?" The man half passed out in pain nodded his head. (He was able to still walk after that if you guys were wondering, even tho his shoulder was broken.)
Dad then went to the biker bar later that evening, knowing that the 3 members will be there as usual. As he walked into the bar, he spotted one of the three guy by a pool table so he walked up behind him, grabbed him by the back of his neck while tripping his feet out from under the man, slamming the guy's face directly onto the pool table, quickly knocking him out. The other two guys along with the rest of the bar heard the clamoring as the room feel silent. Both guys looked at my father with hostile intents with one of the guy grabbing a pool stick and the other grabbing his knife out of his belt. They both circled him, the guy with the pool stick quickly swung towards dad's head and dad ducked. While dad ducked, the man stabbed him in his rub, puncturing his lung...
...Dad then looked at me and sighed, "I suddenly saw red in everything and I went ballistic. Next thing I knew, the guy with the pool stick was knocked out cold with a broken arm and cracked skull. The guy with the knife was thrown across the room, breaking ribs and other body parts." That's when he told me he picked up the knife that stabbed him and walked out of the bar, the entire exchange lasting less than 10 minutes.
Needless to say, they never bothered him again.
Thirty one years later, I'm sitting here with this knife, the very knife that stabbed him, on my desk in front of me, sharing this story in remembrance of his wild days.
He later became one of the most peaceful and loving father/friend/A.A. sponsor that I have ever known.
I recently found it again at the bottom of my father's tool box after my dad's death about 5 months ago and I couldn't help but remember the story behind this knife, the story my father told me many years ago in my youth when I first asked him about it. This was the knife that stabbed him in his ribs before I was born...
The story goes that one day, he was riding his Harley down the highway, driving to a bar one summer day in California. As he arrived, he was greeted by some of the Hells Angels bikers and they got on talking and ended up having a good time, my father befriending some of the original Hells Angels' founders ("They were laid back old timers with love for motorcycles, way before the next several generations of members turning the Hells Angels to crime"). My father became quite liked by the Hells Angels members down the next few years to the point where some of the younger members of the Hells Angels invited him to become a member. Dad almost said yes except "I couldn't tolerate the fact that they discriminated women, treated them like trash, giving them no respect so I declined their offer". Apparently that was the wrong thing they wanted to hear from my father for the following week, my father came home and saw his Harley bike all torn up, major parts missing, leaving just the frame left. Needless to say, dad was pissed.
Dad found out that it was the four Hells Angels guys that asked him to be a member that has done that to his bike. So a few days after the destruction of dad's bike, he rode his other Harley into town and saw one of the members walking down the sidewalk and dad took out his crow bar and revved up his motorcycle faster, speeding towards the man swinging his crowbar as hard as he can at the man's back/shoulder. The man fell down instantly and dad stood above him, holding the crow bar and said, "Don't you ever...touch my Harley ever again. Do you understand?" The man half passed out in pain nodded his head. (He was able to still walk after that if you guys were wondering, even tho his shoulder was broken.)
Dad then went to the biker bar later that evening, knowing that the 3 members will be there as usual. As he walked into the bar, he spotted one of the three guy by a pool table so he walked up behind him, grabbed him by the back of his neck while tripping his feet out from under the man, slamming the guy's face directly onto the pool table, quickly knocking him out. The other two guys along with the rest of the bar heard the clamoring as the room feel silent. Both guys looked at my father with hostile intents with one of the guy grabbing a pool stick and the other grabbing his knife out of his belt. They both circled him, the guy with the pool stick quickly swung towards dad's head and dad ducked. While dad ducked, the man stabbed him in his rub, puncturing his lung...
...Dad then looked at me and sighed, "I suddenly saw red in everything and I went ballistic. Next thing I knew, the guy with the pool stick was knocked out cold with a broken arm and cracked skull. The guy with the knife was thrown across the room, breaking ribs and other body parts." That's when he told me he picked up the knife that stabbed him and walked out of the bar, the entire exchange lasting less than 10 minutes.
Needless to say, they never bothered him again.
Thirty one years later, I'm sitting here with this knife, the very knife that stabbed him, on my desk in front of me, sharing this story in remembrance of his wild days.
He later became one of the most peaceful and loving father/friend/A.A. sponsor that I have ever known.
I'd clean the knife up as a "tribute", ya know?
