The pocket dump is laid out like a quiet confession on weathered (actually shitty laminate) wood—nothing flashy, nothing accidental. It’s the kind of spread you’d expect from a man who packs light but thinks heavy.
Front and center sits the Taran Tactical Combat Carry Glock 43X, all business, no apologies. The stippling is worn just enough to prove it’s been carried, not curated. It’s a working gun—lean, reliable, and allergic to drama. Next to it, the Benchmade Claymore, assisted open like a switch of bad intent. It’s the knife you forget is in your pocket until you need it, which is exactly the point.
There’s a black Montblanc pen—because even in a world of grit and gun oil, words still matter. Contracts get signed. Notes get scribbled. Primary function, bar tabs get settled.
The Modlite OKW sits like a small sun trapped in aluminum, a reminder that darkness is optional if you come prepared.
And then there’s the wildcard: a Breitling Chronomètre Aerospace, titanium light, analog hands still sharp, but the dual digital screens? Dead. Cracked. Frozen in time like bugs in amber.
Most guys would’ve fixed it by now. New screens, fresh seals, good as new. But I won’t. Because those busted screens are the whole point.
See, it broke on a buffalo hunt in 2014—hot, dusty, glorious chaos—somewhere that smelled like dry grass and gunpowder. I was with my grandfather, who had no business being that spry at his age and absolutely no interest in acting his years. The watch took a hit—maybe against the truck, maybe against the rifle, maybe during the kind of moment that blurs when adrenaline takes over. The screens went black, and he laughed so hard he nearly scared off the trackers.
He said, “If your gear comes back perfect, you didn’t really go anywhere.”
So now the watch stays broken. On purpose. A tiny monument to dust, heat, bad decisions, and a man who taught me that memories don’t need to work perfectly to keep time.