All out of bubblegum

Everytime I go over to my family's house these days, my father has a new anti-mugging device for me.



It started innocently enough a few years back, with a rape whistle. The whistle was only about an inch long and silver and he made me a little leather holder for it. I never had to use it, I'm glad to report, but it made a handsome keychain.



Sometime in the past couple weeks, though, my Dad finally shot his bolt and now whenever I go over to the Hubleys, I try to predict what will be waiting for me on the dining room table. If I don't look myself, he reminds me.



"Go and see what's on the dining room table. My leather crafter's guild was giving away free canisters of sarin gas with every roll of medium brown cow hide."



Because, you see, he always has a story. It's never, "I freaked out and special-ordered you this Mace." It's always, "Look what arrived in the mail! A spring-loaded pig-sticker, encased in a lipstick tube! Excellent for poking out eyes! You can put it in your makeup bag."



So far he has given me, in addition to the now innocent-seeming rape whistle, a can of pepper spray, two "screamers" that raise an alarm when you pull on a cord, a sap, and a pocket knife. If he can figure out a way to get me a license to carry, I'm sure I'll receive a small ladylike derringer to tuck into my garter. I'm kind of looking forward to that, actually. It's the last thing standing between me and official dame status.