#aluminum handle knife

[sharponsight]

Boker Magnum Stealth Tactical Pocket Knife Review for Sharp On Sight

See the full review here: https://youtu.be/NqFyY_UAcKU

Today, we're diving into the specifics of the Boker Magnum Stealth Tactical, an impressive folding knife designed for those who demand reliability and functionality. Let’s get into the details that make this knife a standout in its category.

Specifications

Brand: Boker Magnum

Product Name: Stealth Tactical

Model #: 01RY247

Overall Length: 9.06 inches

Closed Length: 5.16 inches

Blade Length: 3.94 inches

Blade Thickness: 0.16 inches

Handle Thickness: 0.68 inches

Blade Material: 440A Stainless Steel

Blade Hardness: 55-58 HRC

Blade Style: Spear Point

Blade Edge: Partially Serrated

Blade Grind: Flat

Blade Finish: Black

Handle Material: Aluminum

Handle Color: Black

Weight: 8.01 oz

Origin: Asia

Blade Range: 3.5-3.99 inches

The Boker Magnum Stealth Tactical is designed to be a robust and versatile tool, perfect for tactical applications and everyday carry. Its 440A stainless steel blade offers a good balance of hardness and corrosion resistance, with a hardness rating of 55-58 HRC ensuring durability and a sharp edge.

The spear point blade style, coupled with a partially serrated edge, makes it highly effective for both piercing and cutting tasks. The flat grind enhances the knife's cutting performance, making it an excellent choice for a variety of uses, from slicing through tough materials to more delicate cutting tasks.

The blade’s black finish not only adds a sleek, tactical look but also provides additional resistance to wear and corrosion. This knife's handle is crafted from aluminum, which is both lightweight and strong, ensuring a secure grip even in challenging conditions. The black color of the handle complements the blade’s finish, creating a cohesive and professional appearance.

Weighing in at 8.01 ounces, the Stealth Tactical is solid and well-balanced, providing a reassuring heft without being overly heavy. Its overall length of 9.06 inches offers ample reach, while the 5.16-inch closed length ensures it remains compact enough for easy carry.

One of the key features of the Stealth Tactical is its partially serrated blade edge, which excels at cutting through fibrous materials like rope and fabric. This makes it a versatile tool for both everyday and emergency situations.

Overall, the Boker Magnum Stealth Tactical is a reliable and well-constructed knife that offers excellent value for its price. Whether you’re a tactical enthusiast, an outdoor adventurer, or simply in need of a dependable everyday carry knife, this model is worth considering.

You can purchase this knife from me here: https://sharponsight.com/products/knives/boker-magnum-stealth-tactical-pocket-knife-53199315

Don’t forget to like, subscribe, and hit the bell icon to stay updated with more knife reviews and sharpening tips from Sharp On Sight!

[chiropteracupola]

wow it's almost as if putting a handle on your hacksaw instead of gripping the fragile blade between your fingers makes it easier

[umbreoncomplex]

my new hobby is covering the entire screen with aluminum powder when im asked to fingerprint something. the accompanying mental image of apollo vigorously applying aluminum powder across the entire handle of a knife is really funny. "polly dont you think thats en-" "I Have To Cover The Entire Print" and then he passes out from blowing too much to clear it all away

[dameronscopilot]

'Twas the Night

Santiago "Pope" Garcia x f!reader

Summary: Any time that you find yourself assigned to a mission with Santiago Garcia and his crew, he never fails to get under your skin. But when the boys leave you to your own devices one frigid Christmas Eve, your burning tension might just finally reach the end of its rope.

Word Count: 2.6k

Rating: 18+ EXPLICIT

Content: NSFW, smut, enemies to lovers, unprotected p in v, choking, spit kink, rough sex, thigh riding, switch vibes, santiago garcia's shitty ass knees, Delta Force!Santiago

‘Twas the night before Christmas, and you were fucking stirring alright—visions of strangling Santiago Garcia dancing in your head. 

Prompt: Trying to stay warm

DECK THE HALLS MASTERLIST

“Fuck you, Garcia,” you grumble, halfheartedly kicking an empty bottle of beer in Santiago’s direction, watching the light from the fire reflect off of the glass as it rolls to a stop against the toe of his boot.

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” he quips, taking one last swig from the remaining dregs at the bottom of his own bottle before tossing it aside. 

It’s way too goddamn fucking cold for this. 

It’s Christmas Eve, and you’re two weeks into a mission you’ve been assigned to with Santiago and his crew. It’s not the first time that you’ve worked with them, and while you get on just fine with Ben, Frankie, and Will, Santiago is an entirely different story. Perhaps it’s the sheer fact that you technically outrank him by a hair, though you still let him take the lead in the field time and time again without complaint, but the man is always looking to pick a fight with you. 

You let your gaze fall to the lopsided, makeshift Christmas tree sitting on the ground beside you—Benny had tied together several branches from a pine tree earlier and decorated it with aluminum shapes that he’d cut out from a can with his pocket knife. Frankie spent an hour grumbling over how he’d pilfered his last can of Coke to do so, but he’d still shuffled over later, rolling his eyes as he added a piece of paper folded into the shape of a star to the top of it. Will had hastily pulled a red bandana out of his backpack, topping off the display with the closest thing you’d get to a tree skirt out here.

Following an early morning of recon, the three of them turned in for a surprisingly early night, somehow trusting that the magic of Christmas would help you to abstain from the urge to tackle Santiago into the fire pit. 

Returning your attention back to the annoyance in question, you bite back, “You couldn’t handle me.”

Without giving him the chance to respond, you abruptly stand up, brushing off your pants and heading for your tent. 

Though you’re hesitant to lose any clothing, sleeping in your dense outer layers is less than desirable, so you strip down to the thermal clothing that you’re wearing over your underwear, quickly diving under the covers. However, as you begin to rub your forearms to stave off the chill, you hear the distinct sound of crunching leaves underfoot, followed by an insistent tapping against the outside of your tent.

“You still awake?” Santi asks.

Groaning, you respond, “I guess I am.”

He tugs the zipper open wide enough to pop his head inside, eyes meeting yours in the dull glow cast by the battery-operated lantern sitting beside you. 

“Frankie’s snoring,” he supplies by way of explanation for his uninvited intrusion.

“I could have been naked,” you deadpan. 

Santi’s fingers pause on their journey to pull the zipper lower, and he raises an eyebrow. “You’re naked under there?”

“I can’t tell if you’re stupid, or if you think I’m stupid,” you grumble, burrowing down further into your sleeping bag.

“Benny sleeps naked when he’s not sharing a tent,” Santi shrugs, stepping inside. 

You don’t bother inquiring how or why he knows that. “Well, I’d rather not freeze to death. Where the hell’s your sleeping bag?”

Scratching the back of his head, a sheepish expression crosses his face. “I think Frankie must have grabbed it in his sleep, because he’s got a death grip on it right now.”

‘Twas the night before Christmas, and you were fucking stirring alright—visions of strangling Santiago Garcia dancing in your head. 

If only because trekking back down the mountains you hiked in through with Santiago’s frozen body in a duffel bag would be a complete and utter hindrance, you growl as you fight with the zipper of your sleeping bag, gesturing toward the small sliver of space you’ve made for him with a dramatic flourish of your hand.

Santi climbs in beside you after kicking off his shoes and shrugging off his jacket, and you will yourself to ignore the way your traitorous heart skips a beat at his close proximity, the heat of his breath skimming across the bridge of your nose. Because for as much as Santiago drives you up a wall, you’re undeniably attracted to the man, which only further stokes the flames of your perpetual annoyance with him. 

His hair tickles your forehead as he settles his head down on the other side of your pillow, and you’re unfortunately reminded of the way your eyes had immediately clocked the new gray strands that had sprouted up amongst his curls when you arrived at the mission briefing.  

In an attempt to stamp down whatever nonsense is flooding through your brain, likely thanks to your half-frozen state, you mutter, “Isn’t sleeping out here in the cold, on the ground, bad for your shitty ass knees?”

He’s so close you can feel the rumbling of his chest as he chuckles, “You’d be surprised by what I can handle.”

Your face burns at the implication, a stark contrast to the chill running through the rest of your body, and you make a noncommittal noise in return. 

After a few moments of silence punctuated only by the sounds of your shivering body rustling against the sleeping bag, Santi helpfully supplies, “You’re freezing.”

“They weren’t kidding when they said you specialize in observational skills, Garcia,” you snap with a roll of your eyes, though it’s not nearly as condescending as you mean for it to sound thanks to the way your teeth are violently chattering. 

“Come closer,” Santi beckons, lifting an arm up. 

“Was getting into my sleeping bag not enough for you?” you retort, studiously trying to ignore the way your limbs long for his body heat. 

Running his other hand over his chin, Santi grouses, “You love being a fucking brat.”

Before you can think twice about what you’re doing, you reach out, firmly grasping the collar of his shirt. Noses brushing, you hiss, “Say it again, Santiago.”

He tilts his head slightly, a lazy grin spreading across mouth, and his lips ghost over yours as he murmurs, “You’re. A Fucking. Brat.”

Looking back, most of your contentious interactions and arguments with Santiago over the years have oozed with sexual tension. Enough, in fact, that you’re well aware the boys have had an ongoing bet for how long it’ll finally take the two of you to fuck it out. And that alone has been reason enough for you to stubbornly ignore the hot, simmering feeling in your gut whenever he’s near. 

But now? Now, you suddenly decide that you simply don’t care. And perhaps it’s because the warm caress of his breath against your cheek is like a siren song to your cold and weary bones. Or maybe you just want to see if the sheer arrogance of his suggestive comments is all talk.

Maybe you’re just fucking lonely. 

Regardless of what sends your walls of resistance crumbling down, Santiago must feel it as well, because the moment your tense body relaxes into the press of his limbs against yours, all bets are fucking off. 

He cups the back of your head and kisses you hard.

Your lips meet much like the way the two of you toss words back and forth—it’s combative and heated. It’s relentless. It’s hungry. 

It’s far easier than you thought it would be. 

It’s a goddamn relief.

Santiago’s mouth moves against yours like he wants to consume you, teeth earnestly nipping at your bottom lip and tongue assertively tangling with yours. The smell from the fire lingers heavily on him, mixed with undertones of a scent that’s distinctly him. It throws you off guard, the way it invades your senses.

As your mouths continue to slide together, you find that you’re plastered against Santiago’s solid frame, and one of his hands slides down your side, stopping to curl around your hip. Both of you shift at the same time, and his thigh slides between your legs. At the feeling of him pressed against your hot center, you can’t help the small gasp that escapes your lips, your body instinctively arching into the pleasurable touch.

An appreciative sound leaves Santi’s throat, and he tightens his grip on your hip, leaning in to whisper in your ear, “Go ahead.”

Far beyond the pretense of petulant remarks for the sake of animosity, the only thing that leaves your mouth is a brazen moan as you allow yourself to grind down on Santiago’s muscled thigh. Even through the layers of clothing between you, your cunt throbs at the rough drag across your folds, sliding in the wet pool of arousal soaking your underwear.

“Fuck,” Santiago grunts as you roll your hips into him, chasing the embers flaring brightly in your abdomen. 

He slides a hand up your shirt, and goosebumps spread across your skin at the feeling of his cool hands caressing your breasts. Still kissing you deeply, he strokes at one of your peaked nipples, pinching down just hard enough to make you moan into his mouth. At that, a trembling wave of pleasure washes over you, and Santi’s hand cups your ass as you ride out your orgasm on his thigh. 

Still far too eager for more, you reach into Santi’s pants, anticipation dancing up your spine when you wrap your hands around his thick cock. He groans, rutting into your touch, and you begin to stroke his shaft. 

“Wanna fuck you,” Santi breaths out, hands skating across your waistband.

Far more concerned about things other than preserving your body heat inside of the sleeping bag, you flip it open, and your arms and legs are a messy tangle of limbs as you nearly tear each other’s clothes off, lips meeting needily in between each and every discarded article tossed to the wayside. 

Santiago’s hands begin to roam across your naked body, though he eventually stops, placing a finger beneath your chin and tipping it upward. His tone is even when he says, “Get on your hands and knees.”

And so you fall into line for him, planting yourself firmly on the ground as Santiago lines himself up behind you. You have half a mind to nudge the pillow backward in his direction, well aware of the state of his knees, but something about his complete and utter disregard for them has you dripping shamelessly as he slides a finger through your folds. If he wants to struggle through the pain for the sake of pounding into you right here on the cold, hard ground, so be it. You’ll milk his cock for all it’s worth in return for his trouble.

You hear Santi spit into his hand, followed by the slick sounds of skin on skin as he fists his cock before notching the head against your fluttering entrance. Impatient, you begin to push backward, keening at the feeling of his shaft slowly slipping inside of you. And clearly he’s well aware of what you want, because he’s hardly halfway into your channel when he roughly snaps  his hips against your ass, burying himself inside of you to the hilt.

“Fuck, Santi,” you cry out, belatedly clapping a hand to your mouth when you remember the three other people sleeping in the tents beside yours.

“You like that?” he asks, fingers digging tightly into your hips as he begins to pump his length in and out of you. 

You collapse forward slightly at the feeling of your tight channel spreading and contracting for his fat cock with each thrust, savoring the scorching feeling of pleasure tearing through your body. 

“Harder,” you pant out.

Santi obliges without question, balls smacking your ass as he ravages your hole with fervor, wet trails of arousal dripping down the backs of your legs. He grunts, hands grasping your backside as he roughly plunges inside of you, and after a particularly deep thrust where his cock slams against your cervix, your legs collapse.

He continues fucking you into the ground as you lie flat beneath him, your body quivering with the tremors of pleasure wracking through it. A hand grasps your throat, squeezing, and Santi doesn’t miss the way your walls needily clench down on his cock as he begins to choke you. But then you feel him shift, and with a hand still wrapped around your neck, he pushes your jaw upward, tilting your head directly backward to see him looking down at you.

“Open,” he says evenly as he continues to drive his shaft into you.

Your lips part for him, and Santiago leans down to spit into your mouth. You swallow his saliva, and he kisses you bruisingly in return. Arching your ass upward to meet him, Santi continues on with his punishing thrusts with his hand at your throat until the coil inside of you snaps once more, leaving you to gush on his cock with an orgasm that leaves the edges of your vision tinged in white. 

Despite the fact that your limbs feel boneless at this point, you force yourself upward, back onto your knees, crying out at the feeling of Santi’s cock hitting you deep as you meet a particularly hard thrust. But rather than let him finish like this, you pull away, inciting a look of confusion across his face for but a moment until you push Santiago down onto his back and climb on top of him.

Santi’s eyes fall shut and his jaw goes slack as you straddle his lap, sinking back down onto his leaking, throbbing cock. You start off slow, setting an easy rhythm as you lift yourself up and down, and appreciative groans leave his lips as he watches you ride his shaft with a hooded gaze. But as you begin to pick up your pace, his hips cant upward as he ruts up into you, fingers tightly gripping your thighs. 

And you know how badly he wants to come. You can feel it in the way his muscles begin to tighten underneath of you, the way his blunt fingernails are digging into your skin. But first—

You reach down, grasping Santiago’s shoulders to haul him halfway up, and one of his arms shoots out behind him for balance. Smiling, you run a hand through his graying curls, and he tries to chase your lips for a kiss, but you tighten your grip, tugging roughly on his hair and tilting his head backward slightly.

And oh, he knows what you’re about to do. You can see it in the way his lust-blown pupils widen even further, the way he bites down on his lower lip. 

He knows exactly what you’re going to do, but there’s a sparkle of defiance in his eyes as he makes no move to comply, awaiting your reaction. In turn, you pull his hair even harder, and he groans, cock twitching inside of you as he finally parts his lips. 

And the moment you spit into Santiago’s mouth, both of his hands find your hips once again, wrapping around you with an iron grip and lifting you just enough to jackhammer his cock into your cunt at a dizzying, unforgiving pace. As he swallows, he captures your mouth in a feverish, sloppy kiss, both of you moaning into it when his hips begin to stutter. 

Santiago rises, pushing you onto your back once more and quickly pulling his shaft out of you. Wrapping a hand around his cock, he strokes it rapidly until hot, thick ropes of cum spurt across your breasts. 

He collapses beside you on top of the sleeping bag, only to roll sideways a moment later, rooting around for the pack of tissues he'd seen lying nearby.

As you grab them out of his hands, he opens his mouth to speak, but you immediately interrupt, “Don’t say it.”

Looking far too boyishly handsome for a man that just spat in your mouth and came all over your tits, he grins, “Merry Christmas.”

—

Comments, reblogs, and/or asks are always appreciated!

» OSCAR ISAAC MASTERLIST » SANTIAGO GARCIA MASTERLIST

[chic-a-gigot]

La Mode illustrée, no. 35, 27 août 1882, Paris. Ustensiles de table, modèles de chez Testevuide, Maison de l'Aluminium, boulevard Poissonnière, 21. Ville de Paris / Bibliothèque Forney

Le no. 187 est une pince à sucre en bronze d'aluminium (aluminum bronze sugar tongs), du prix de 6 fr. 50 c.

No. 526. Cuillère à confiture et fruits à l'eau-de-vie (Spoon for jam and fruit brandy): 3 fr.

No. 530. Cuillère à thé (forme russe) (Teaspoon (Russian form)): 2 fr. 25 c.

No. 171. Cuillère à sucre repercée à jours (Sugar spoon pierced with holes): 7 fr. 50 c.

No. 560. Ciseau à raisin (Grape scissors): 10 fr.

No. 214. Cuillère à punch avec manche d'ébène (Punch ladle with ebony handle): 7 fr.

No. 402. Couteau à fruits, avec manche japonais et lame en bronze d'aluminium (Fruit knife, with Japanese handle and aluminum bronze blade): 3 fr. 75 c.

No. 159. Même couteau entièrement en bronze d'aluminium (Fruit knife entirely in aluminum bronze): 3 fr. 75 c.

No. 158. Couvert à dessert en même métal (Dessert cutlery in in aluminum bronze): 5 fr.

No. 186. Pelle à tartre repercée à jours (Spatula pierced with holes): 15 fr. 55 c.

No. 173. Cuillère à verre d'eau (Glass of water spoon): 3 fr. 75 c.

No. 525. Cuillère à fraises (Strawberry spoon): 12 fr.

No. 399. Couteau à fromage avec manche d'ivoire (Cheese knife with ivory handle): 10 fr.

No. 170. Cuillère à compote (Compote spoon): 7 fr.

No. 192. Casse-noix simple ou double (Single or double nutcracker): 9 fr.

No. 185. Pelle à glace (Ice shovel): 10 fr.

No. 164. Cuillère à café grand modèle uni (Coffee spoon, large plain model): 1 fr. 50 c.

No. 676. Cuillère, à glace (Ice cream spoon): 1 fr. 75.

No. 520. Cuillère à café de forme russe (Coffee spoon, Russian form): 2 fr.

No. 720. Compotier guilloché à perle et cristal gravé (Guilloche dish with pearl and engraved crystal): 30 fr.

No. 545. Passe-thé repercé à jours (Perforated tea strainer): 3 fr.

No. 424. Surtout de table argenté avec cornet en cristal taillé (Silver table centerpiece with cut crystal cornet): 75 fr.

Nos. 410 à 413. Service à bonbons (Candy service): 15 fr.

No. 675. Sucrier de table, à pied rond avec cuillère repercée (Table sugar bowl, round foot with pierced spoon): 37 fr. 75 c.

No. 561. Pince à sucre en forme d'oiseau (très-commodé) (Bird-shaped sugar tongs (very convenient)): 7 à 9 fr.

No. 735. Cafetière Louis XVI guillochée avec deux écussons (Louis XVI guilloché coffee pot with two escutcheons): 55 à 60 fr.

No. 478. Tasse à café avec soucoupe (Coffee cup with saucer): 20 fr.

Corbeille pour milieu de table (Basket for middle of table): 200 fr.

—

Le luxe et l'élégance dans le service de la table ont marché d'un pas égal avec le luxe de la toilette et de l'habillement. Il serait choquant, en effet, de voir des maîtresses de maison vêtues de beaux atours, assises devant une table dressée avec incurie ou négligence. Quand on ne peut posséder des services en argent très-complet, on y supplée en employant des métaux moins coûteux. Ce que l'on recherche avant tout, c'est l'aspect soigné de la table, c'est aussi l'emploi d'objets spéciaux pour chaque usage: servir du thé ou du café dans une théière ou dans une cafetière de porcelaine est une hérésie en matière de confort élégant. On a porté cette recherche dans tous les détails. Pour les fruits à l'eau-de-vie et pour les confitures, on a fabriqué des petites louches microscopiques, cuillères rondes pareilles à celles que l'on emploie pour servir le potage. On a des cuillères à compotes, des pelles à tartes, des cuillères à sucre, à punch, à verre d'eau, etc., et beaucoup d'etc., ainsi que nos abonnées pourront s'en convaincre en examinant la collection d'ustensiles de table que nous plaçons sous leurs yeux. Les numéros du catalogue de la Maison de l'Aluminium accompagnent chaque objet, ce qui abrège les recherches et résout les doutes quant aux prix.

—

Luxury and elegance in the service of the table have gone hand in hand with the luxury of toilet and clothing. It would indeed be shocking to see hostesses dressed in finery, seated before a table set carelessly or negligently. When one cannot possess very complete silver services, one makes up for it by employing less costly metals. What we are looking for above all is the neat appearance of the table, it is also the use of special objects for each use: serving tea or coffee in a teapot or in a porcelain coffee maker is heresy when it comes to stylish comfort. We carried out this research in all the details. For fruits in eau-de-vie and for jams, small microscopic ladles were made, round spoons similar to those used to serve soup. We have compote spoons, pie scoops, sugar spoons, punch spoons, glass of water spoons, etc., and a lot of etc., as our subscribers will be able to convince themselves of by examining the collection of utensils that we place before their eyes. The catalog numbers of the Maison de l'Aluminium accompany each object, which shortens searches and resolves doubts about prices.

[malkah-of-kharbranth]

INGREDIENTS

2 cups Imperial Sugar Extra Fine Granulated Sugar

3 tablespoons honey

4 sticks unsalted butter

1/2 teaspoon salt

1 teaspoon vanilla extract

DIRECTIONS

Line a 9 x 13-inch baking pan with aluminum foil. Evenly grease foil with vegetable oil and set aside.1

In a heavy bottomed saucepan, combine sugar, honey, butter and salt and stir to a boil.2

Stir mixture continuously using a wooden or heat resistant spatula until it reaches 267°F.3

Remove from heat and mix in vanilla extract. Pour mixture into prepared pan to cool. When candy is cool enough to handle, cut to desired size using a non-serrated knife.

Thanks!

[rito-flips]

We need to talk about Benchmade.

Ah, Benchmade. The reason why balisongs are called buttefly knives by the general public, and an absolute juggernaut in the larger knife community. There's a reason people swear by Benchmade and their other stuff, but more specifically, I want to talk about the new balisong they've supposedly been cooking up that is insanely worrying at best and a slap in the face to the community at worst.

Before we get into the knife in question, let's take a trip down memory lane with Benchmade's past balisongs. First up, we have the Model 42 and its siblings:

MSRP of around $200 USD, washers only, and you had a choice of either steel or titanium handles, but back then it was all that you could get your hands on that wouldn't fall apart in a matter of weeks. They're what some of the first flippers ever had their hands on, up until its discontinuation, and I stand to say that it is the most iconic balisong of all time. It's in all the movies, it's one of the first knives that pop up when you search balisongs on Google—hell, some people now are asserting that its flipping still stacks up to what's on the market today. But it and its siblings did not last forever, and it was discontinued in the early 2010s, replaced by the Model 51:

~$280 USD MSRP, and still only on washers, but this time it was on titanium liners and G10 scales. People didn't like the 51 as much as the 42, but again, options were very limited (your only other real choice was a Bradley Kimura), and with the handles not being one solid piece of material, it soon became a bit of a modding platform alongside the BRS Replicant when that came along. But yet again, things don't last forever, and the 51 saw its discontinuation a few years back.

Benchmade was always a company that didn't seem to care much for the flipping community, considering the last balisongs they used to offer, the 8x series, are 5.5 oz bearing knives that retailed for $500+ USD. But around 4 months ago, a page from their 2024 catalogue got leaked to the balisong subreddit about a new balisong they're trying to cook up, which is the subject of today's rant:

Meet the Necron, a liners + G10 knife with an adjustable balance, options for handle extensions, and a weight that wasn't totally unbearable. While some people didn't like its resemblance to the Replicant, it seemed like Benchmade was finally paying attention to the flipping community with the fact that they geared the knife towards flipping. Even if the base live blade was marked at $450 USD, it was about par for the course considering Benchmade's prices on all of their current products.

Then Blade HQ released a video about Benchmade's 2024 catalogue along with preorder listings. Included was the Necron, and when the knife's full specs were revealed, I witnessed an entire community go "what the fuck" in real time.

Before I reveal the Necron's full specs, there's something I want you to understand. The community's bar for Benchmade has been six feet underground ever since the release of the 8x series with how overpriced it was. Considering their importance in the early days of the hobby, a good chunk of older flippers I've talked to would be perfectly content with a rerelease of the 4x series or even the 51—Cold Steel is doing this with an aluminum version of the Arc Angel, and some people are at least mildly interested in it. But Benchmade seems to be allergic to that, and in recent years with them jacking up prices all across the board, opinions surrounding them have soured.

Anyway, here are the Necron's full specs:

Did you notice that the liners are steel? Did you notice that it's only on washers?

In its price bracket alone, you have things like the Tottori and Serif-P from Machinewise, the Tsunami Trainer from Squid Industries, the Cygnus from LDY, the Specter, Chimera, and Basilisk-R from Jerry Hom—all of these knives are just one step below the absolute best of the best of production balisongs, and all of these have bushings, at least use titanium in the handles, and are built with the utmost care and attention to detail (except for maybe the Tsunami, but that's a rant for another time).

The Necron is none of those. Instead, it is a knife that would have been outdated 5 years ago, lacks features that 85 dollar knives have, and is only going to be bought by braindead shills who care about the brand of the knife and nothing else. The Replicant outclasses it in every way, and for the price of the Necron you could build a custom one entierly from aftermarket parts. Even within Benchmade's past knives, both the 42 and the 51 used titanium in some capacity, and both of those knives were considerably cheaper than what the Necron is gonna retail for. At least Ben Parli's gonna get some more customers...

In the Blade HQ video I mentioned earlier, the Benchmade representative touted on about how they're tracing back to their roots with what they call a "modern knife" that'll be good for flipping. But with the sheer cognitive dissonance between what they say about it and what's what the truth of it is, the community at large can't help but feel that they're completely out of touch and only want to line their pockets with more money. If this is the way Behcnmade goes out making balisongs, then so be it. It's not like Benchmade cares anymore anyway.

[edelstahlviratiberica]

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[toyybox]

Spiderwebs #4: Diplomacy

Masterlist

content: lab whump, kidnapping, non-consensual drugging, failed escape attempt

· • —– ٠ ✤ ٠ —– • ·

Jackie did not realize the severity of his situation for a while—he blamed it on the bullets—but it did eventually dawn on him that, yes, he was locked in a stranger’s basement. For a reason he still was not privy to. Again, very rude. He could rule out human trafficking, more or less, considering that the unnamed lady wanted him dead. That still left serial killer, hitman, or organ salesman on the list, none of which were much better options. 

He needed to escape. That much was clear. It was what every prisoner did, what every prisoner wanted. It kept his thoughts occupied, in any case. 

There were no windows in the basement. It was cold and somewhat dusty. There was no carpet, only concrete, and the walls were painted a nondescript off-white. There were two doors. One, he assumed, led to a different room. The other, which sat atop a flight of stairs, led out of the basement. The doors were all very fancy. Almost Gothic, dark mahogany under a slight glaze, all very intimidating. Enough about the doors, though. He doubted they were unlocked, and even if they were he’d have trouble opening them in his current position—that is, trussed up like a Christmas goose. 

Sneaking out would be hard, then. He was willing to bargain with his captor. Jackie was smart enough to realize that cooperation would get him farther than blind rage. Blind rage had a time and a place, of course. Preferably when his opponent did not wield an aluminum bat. Until then…

He kept searching. There were a few pieces of furniture—a decaying dresser, the empty frame of a mirror, a wooden chair and table. There was a large, boxy freezer—large enough to store a few bodies, at least—though it was currently unplugged. There was a cardboard box of cleaning supplies, and Jackie could see the handle of a broom sticking out. A lone light hung from the ceiling. He hoped it wouldn’t go out any time soon. Lord knew what he’d keep busy with in a dark room.

Would the police believe him? He wasn’t sure how many people had died at his new captor’s hands, or how many people would die in the future. He had a duty, no? To tell the cops? To guide the hand of justice? Then again, maybe it wasn’t any of his damned business. He’d keep his hands clean of the whole affair and hopefully be a free man before his vacation days ended. He’d stay safe, he’d stay quiet, and he’d forget it ever happened.

There was not much else to contemplate. There was a steady ache in his chest, in his head, and around his wrists. The pain was already becoming familiar, however, fading into white noise along with the buzz of the lights. Jackie nearly fell asleep again when the door opened.

“Hello.” At the door, she wore a cashmere sweater, not a bloody apron. Her hair fell loosely around her neck, scraping her shoulders. She held a glass of water in her right hand, clasped the doorknob in her left. There was nothing violent in her expression, nothing but a soft indifference. “Feeling alright?”

Jackie nearly replied with no, before he realized the gag was still on. He shrugged instead, hoping to appear aloof but reasonable, unhappy but in a diplomatic way.

“Great.” She stepped down the stairs. The sound had an echo to it, and so did her voice. “You must be thirsty. Here.” She set a glass down in front of him, where he sat on the floor.

Jackie tilted his head. He flexed his hands, still bound in the thick rope. The lady nodded and pulled a Swiss Army knife from her pocket. Reaching over his shoulder, she worked at the ropes. Her hair brushed his cheek. Her hands were cold as they grazed against his. 

She pulled the ropes away. Jackie wrung his wrists, then pulled down the chiffon scarf from his mouth. “Thanks.”

She brushed her bangs off her face. “You’re welcome. Now, drink something. We’re going to have a conversation.”

It was an unwavering command. The staccato tone she used made him uneasy. Still, he took the glass. There was no use in starting an argument. 

“I never got your name, did I?” he said.

“Hm.” Her eyes narrowed, only slightly. “You’ll be here for a while. We might as well get to know each other. I’m Heather.”

“That’s a plant, isn’t it? Like lavender?”

“I suppose, but I’m not a botanist.” 

“What are you, then? If you don’t mind me asking?”

She definitely did mind. “Drink that first, then we’ll talk.”

He drank the water, then handed her the empty glass. “You’re not a hitman, are you?”

Heather let out a curt laugh. “No, not at all. I’m a chemist, though I take an interest in biology these days. I’m sure you want to know why I brought you here. Truth be told, I want you dead. I wanted your heart, Jackie.”

He blinked. “Oh.”

“Not in the metaphorical sense. I wanted the literal organ.” Heather stood up straighter and continued. “I needed something to test on, that’s all. I’m sure you wouldn’t mind, right? Your contribution would have helped science immensely. That’s not the problem, in any case. The problem is that I have your heart, and you’re still alive.”

Jackie nodded, slowly, wondering if it was better to call the psychiatrist instead of the police. 

Heather stared down at him, expressionless. “You don’t believe me, do you?”

“No, I believe you. You shot me a few times, I think that proves it.” This was a lie. All things died. Jackie knew that. That raw, bloody thing in the jar wasn’t his heart—he still had a pulse, didn’t he? He was still breathing. There was some other explanation he was too panicked to notice. He’d tell Heather whatever she wanted to hear, though, whatever would help him survive this. “But you do know that murder is illegal, right?”

“No, I thought the police would be thrilled to see my organ collection. Moving on, I have good news and bad news.”

Jackie didn’t like the phrase organ collection. He supposed that a scientist could also be a serial killer. Being a scientist would probably make the work a lot easier, now that he thought about it. He’d bet she had access to all sorts of neat trinkets and tools. What was next, her human leather scrapbook? “Okay, start with the bad news.”

“You’re going to stay here, in my house, for the rest of your life.” She said it with such a candid air. “I’ll provide food, water, whatever you need. New clothes, maybe. You’ll sleep in the basement, of course. That door over there is for the bathroom. The shower is broken, by the way. If you want to use the one upstairs, don’t be afraid to ask.”

“Wow. The bare minimum. You’re an angel.”

She powered on without so much as a glare. “Yes, I know. Regardless, I will say this. Don’t try to escape. I’d rather work with you, not against you, but I’m not afraid of getting my hands dirty.”

Or her closet, apparently. “Why are you keeping me here, again? Remind me.”

“I can’t let you run off to the police after all that, can I? Besides, I need a test subject.”

He scowled. “Why don’t you buy a hamster, then?”

“I’m banned from PetSmart, and hamsters aren’t immortal. That’s the good news, by the way. You’re immortal.” She paused, as if waiting for Jackie to pop a bottle of champagne and start clapping. “You’re a biological miracle, and I’m not letting that slip away.”

Jackie stood up to face her properly. “Listen, this all sounds great, but I’ve got other plans on my calendar. Let me go now and I won’t say a word to the cops. I won’t say a word to anybody. Deal?”

“You are aware that I’m holding you captive, right? I make the deals, not you.” She glanced away as she spoke, but looked back to study his expression. “Are you starting to feel tired, Jackie?”

He completely ignored her question. “That’s not a deal, that’s a decision. I say we make a deal. I can give you money? I can let you shoot me a few times, if that’s what you want?”

“That would be highly unprofessional. I’d need to shoot you more than just a few times to confirm my results. And I’d like to test more than just bullets.” She tilted the glass in her hand. “I’ll start the tests tomorrow. Don't look so worried. It’s not as bad as it sounds. Get some rest. Think it over.”

She stood up and walked over to the door upstairs without so much as a second glance. Bargaining hadn’t worked. Clearly, Heather wasn’t interested in his opinion. He wasn’t a variable in this. His thoughts were casualties, his feelings on the matter collateral damage. He would need to resort to other means. 

He followed her to the base of the stairs, quiet as physically possible, treading around the echo. This physical exertion blurred his vision—he fought to keep it fixed on his target. 

As soon as the door opened, he ran up the steps and lunged. 

He shoved her to the ground with as much force as he could gather. There was a short gasping sound as the air was pushed out of her lungs. When she reached for the Swiss knife, he grabbed her wrist and kept it from moving. 

Heather… wasn’t fighting back. She was just watching him, observing him. He felt as though the test had already started. No matter, he needed to move quickly. Rats in mazes didn’t stop to ask questions, did they? He needed to disable her somehow. Restrain her. Jackie pinned her wrist to the ground with one hand and reached for the knife in her pocket with the other.

He let go, for only a moment, as he felt pain crack in his chest. She’d kicked him. That moment was enough for her to keep going and sock him in the nose. The smell of blood began to bloom inside his skull. He wiped his nose, swung at her, missed. She pushed. He nearly fell down the stairs, but managed to hold on by the sleeve of her sweater.

“Are you feeling tired yet?” Heather smiled, still pinned under him yet oh-so confident. “Vision getting blurry? Movement appears to be uncoordinated? I think dry mouth was a side effect.”

“What the hell are you going on about?” He attempted to stand up. This was a bad idea, it seemed, because he lost balance and fell on top of her. 

He was vaguely aware of how embarrassing this was, vaguely aware of her body under him, but that knowledge wasn’t much help. Every attempt at moving his limbs again was like trying to swim to the bottom of a swimming pool. His thoughts, too, were underwater, distorted by the viscosity of it all. The only thing he could manage was catching his breath.

“I drugged you, Jackie. Or, more specifically, I drugged your water.” She shrugged. “I expected a fight. I wasn’t happy about it, by the way. I was hoping you’d be a little more sensible.”

“And stay in your basement?” he managed to snap back, though it took a hot minute to form the words. “I’m not going to...“

“Come on, Jack.” She was grinning now. “Get up. Fight me. The door’s right there. Your last chance at leaving.”

“Not my last chance,” he hissed. With a heave, he lifted himself off the floor. “You can’t stop me.”

She pushed him away like a ragdoll. His head slammed on the hard surface of the railing. “Get up and fight, then. Go on. Just stand up. It’s not so hard, is it? It’s only a mild sedative. You can do it.”

He looked up at her. There was a certain glow around her silhouette as she stood against the sunlight, a certain blur around her features. The sunlight! He could run. He could make it. He could go home. This little adventure was starting to wear down on him. If only Heather would move out of the way. She was grinning harder now, or maybe it was his mind playing tricks. That was the last thing he saw, that strange apparition, before it all faded.

[krabbypattielol]

[purrloined-sweets]

2 cups Imperial Sugar Extra Fine Granulated Sugar

3 tablespoons honey

4 sticks unsalted butter

1/2 teaspoon salt

1 teaspoon vanilla extract

DIRECTIONS

Line a 9 x 13-inch baking pan with aluminum foil. Evenly grease foil with vegetable oil and set aside.1

In a heavy bottomed saucepan, combine sugar, honey, butter and salt and stir to a boil.2

Stir mixture continuously using a wooden or heat resistant spatula until it reaches 267°F.3

Remove from heat and mix in vanilla extract. Pour mixture into prepared pan to cool. When candy is cool enough to handle, cut to desired size using a non-serrated knife.

(Hope this helps in your butterscotch adventures! -@tokensofmyconfections )

Thank you! I just finished making it, and it's currently cooling in the pan! I tasted a little from the edge of the saucepan and it's very good!

The Fahrenheit temperature seemed a little odd, but once I converted it to Celsius it came out as a nice round number that was easy to find on my candy thermometer!

[intj-greenwords]

I had fun with some of the writing in Silver Blaze:

Watson:

It seemed to me that Watson had his priorities turn-about here, giving a disappearing horse greater priority than a murdered human. (Doctor, where is your bedside manner?)

There was but one problem before the public which could challenge his powers of analysis, and that was the singular disappearance of the favorite for the Wessex Cup, and the tragic murder of its trainer.

But once I knew the end of the story, I could understand how it happened.

Sherlock:

“We are going well,” said he, looking out the window and glancing at his watch. “Our rate at present is fifty-three and a half miles an hour.” “I have not observed the quarter-mile posts,” said I. “Nor have I. But the telegraph posts upon this line are sixty yards apart, and the calculation is a simple one.

How does Sherlock know this? Did he once have a fixation on this stretch of rail? Or has he memorised the distances between all telegraph posts on all lines? The wording suggests that it isn’t the same distance everywhere.

Sherlock:

“Because I made a blunder, my dear Watson—which is, I am afraid, a more common occurrence than any one would think who only knew me through your memoirs.”

Awww, look at Sherlock being modest. ☺️

Straker:

These are the contents of the suspect’s pockets:

There was a box of vestas, two inches of tallow candle, an A D P brier-root pipe, a pouch of seal-skin with half an ounce of long-cut Cavendish, a silver watch with a gold chain, five sovereigns in gold, an aluminum pencil-case, a few papers, and an ivory-handled knife with a very delicate, inflexible blade marked Weiss & Co., London.

The banana feels like it doesn’t belong. 😂

The Inspector:

Sherlock being cool:

"I cannot think how I came to overlook it,” said the Inspector, with an expression of annoyance. Sherlock: “It was invisible, buried in the mud. I only saw it because I was looking for it.”

The groom:

The groom at Mapleton Stables doesn’t miss a chance. 💰

“No, sir, no; it is as much as my place is worth to let him see me touch your money. Afterwards, if you like.”

Sherlock:

Sherlock having a little fun of his own:

“I don't know whether you observed it, Watson, but the Colonel's manner has been just a trifle cavalier to me. I am inclined now to have a little amusement at his expense.”

The inspector:

“Is there any point to which you would wish to draw my attention?” asked the Inspector. “To the curious incident of the dog in the night-time.” “The dog did nothing in the night-time.” “That was the curious incident,” remarked Sherlock Holmes.

LOL

[bitchfitch]

that ask about the coelanth cane + me visiting my extended family is making me rethink the design. Bc like. I have my own furnace now and it definitely gets hot enough to melt down brass. plus my cousin has one of those uber long drill press lathe things for boring out riffle barrels. If I give him my walnut dowel blank he can bore it out and I can drop an aluminum pipe down it to add some heft and rigidity. add a brass foot+ a rubber pad and a slightly modified version of the spikes already on my cane and it would be both all terrain And the ultimate 'fuck off' stick.

And then that's getting me thinking, if I'm already boring out the length. why not make a few cuts, add and some threads +decorative rings to have compartments. Unscrew the handle to find the little metal key chain thing for my emergency meds, unscrew just below that to find the jelly beans, and unscrew below that for the knife.

because while I am a big proponent of canes being used as blunt force weapons, Literally all canes will crack bones with minimal strength due to how the length multiplies the force put into the swing, there is nothing sexier than a cane knife.

[jaraxles]

Paring knife i made for my friends' new business, Bones and Botanicals, with my smoked old fashioned.

Handle is faux ivory, G10, aluminum, and blue mahoe.

[vumaker]

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