I’m not usually one for endorsements. Other than Roeslu Black Coil piano wire (I swear to God, it’s like the guys choke themselves to death), I don’t talk up a lot of products. In my line of work, it don’t pay to profess a predilection for any particular kind of, say, hollow-point “cop killer” bullets when there’s a good chance someone in the room is a sociopath with brand loyalty and the ability to demonstrate. But I gotta tell ya, after this Florida job, I find myself wandering around a Costco, covered in swamp mud and fresh alligator scars, coked outta my head, packin’ three kinds of heat, a now-useless claw hammer and a human head stuffed under my shirt, and like manna from heaven I find this Kirkland duffel right between a 36-count flat of Arrowhead and a 2-gallon jug of Gallo Cabernet-Sauvignon. I’ve had the thing with me ever since, and I strongly recommend anyone in the business pick one up. If the endorsement of a guy who’s had his arm far enough up a prison snitch to give his gay cellmate a handjob isn’t enough, try these objective-like observations on for size.
Brown is the least noticeable color in the world. Not when it comes to skin of course—brothers get picked up by the screws like they’re on sale—but if you’re trying to get a collapsed sniper rifle past the front desk of a library, brown is the way to go. A lot of these new guys go black all the way, like some Matrix shit, but nowadays black is so inconspicuous it’s conspicuous, you know what I mean? And I could never abide people thinkin’ I’m some sort of goth kid or a school shooter. Those punks are pure amateur, no professionalism whatsoever. So what can brown do for you? Let you murder people for money; that’s what.
Plenty of Handles
Any way you want to grab this thing, there’s a handle for it. It’s like the guy in charge of the luggage factory is getting kickbacks from the handle lobby. I mean, this thing’s got handles on the inside. You want to heft it with one hand while you return fire with a deagle? Body strap. You want to hug it to your chest while hoofing it down an alley, without fear of a possibly-fatal slippage? Hand straps, with Velcro no less. Being able to reach down and know my bag has got a handle waiting has given me a bounce in my step and the confidence I need to do a father execution style when he’s getting’ all weepy and whatnot. Not to mention the confidence that when I run out of ammo clips, I always got somethin’ big handy to beat faces in with. Oh, and it’s got those wheelie things too.
Even More Pockets
The pockets guy must be banging the handles guy, because this thing’s like a pair of fucking cargo pants. This ain’t one of those numbers with just one big area, like you might as well be carryin’ a fucking sack; some prick could rummage through this thing all day and still not find your stash/gun/severed ear. And when you’re used to hiding sensitive items inside a tied-off condom in your asshole, a little pouch of fabric secured inside the lining of your luggage is like a blowjob from God. Can you believe that before I got this thing, I’d never taken a dump in an airplane bathroom? Not that that’s all that great, but still. Plus, it’s perfect for organization: instead of havin’ to root through a load of sharpened screwdrivers and ball gags to find my butterfly knives, I just reach for the zipper of the top-right pocket. Before you know it, the guy tied to the chair’s got half his face on his lap, instead of laughing at me while I dump out my whole bag like a moron.
Doesn’t Hang Onto That “Corpse Smell”
This one I know you’re not gonna believe until you try it yourself, but I swear on my crooked mother’s watery grave that this thing gets rid of corpse smell like there’s some sort of magic pixie livin’ inside it. I’m not going to say that Kirkland made the bag with hitmen in mind, but I will say that one time I forgot about a bag of McDonald’s in there for a couple hours, and I can smell those fries a hell of a lot stronger than I can smell Rudy Figarro. Plus, the lining stops blood seepage like it nothing. Beads like water; it’s fucking miraculous. I’ve had no less that six and a half bodies in this bag, one time for three weeks, and I honestly wouldn’t mind stickin’ my head inside and taking a big whiff. Of course, I may be more used to the smell of death than most.
Not that I’ll use it necessarily, but it’s just nice to know it’s there.
So that’s my two cents. And hey, if you do decide to buy one, get it at the Costco in New Orleans, by Ray’s BBQ Bin, and tell Jim Wilmott that Hacksaw sent you. Should be good for a few bucks off. If he gives you trouble, tell him Hacksaw said he’s a fucking dead man. He’ll know what you mean.
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2009 Those Aren't Muskets!