I’ve arrived at the conclusion that nobody buys switchblades; they are just given as gifts.
I used to work the graveyard shift at a hotel in Oakland’s Chinatown. Needless to say the clientele was… gruff, which is why I enjoyed working the graveyard shift. One day, the valet came skipping up to the desk with a smile on his face. “Dude, that thug was just in here with that hot piece o’ ass?” I nodded, “Yes.” Producing a switchblade, he said, “He just fucking tipped me this!”
I was jealous, to say the least. He didn’t deserve such a cool tip, either. Flash forward a few weeks later, his mom finds it and takes it away. Sucks to be sixteen.
But flash forward several years later and I’m given a switchblade, and a much nicer one at that! It is a real switchblade. Sturdy. Solid. It kicks.
I’m just that cool, I suppose.