Bellingham, Washington Nov. 24, 1996 1:10 PM.

Killing someone with an axe is an ugly, bloody affair. Unlike mass media portrayals of psycho killers dispatching busty co-eds with one fell swoop, axe-murdering is a real chore which requires upper body strength, endurance and a heart of ice. The victim must undergo numerous well-placed hits before they eventually succumb to shock and loss of blood. The killer must be willing to chase around a bleeding, hysterical quarry and continue hacking away until the prey lay still and quiet.

It's a lot of work!

I know, because I'm one of those few, harried citizens who relies on wood for heat. Instead of blithely turning up a thermostat, I chop and burn pieces of long-dead trees.

Yes, it's a pain in the ass. And on rainy days, it can be hellish. But on the plus side, my winter utility bills are negligible, hovering around $25 a month. Once the fire is going I can relax in my toasty, glowing den with some cold beer and flaming bong-bowls.

It's really kinda nice!

So you can imagine my dismay when I stepped out to the wood pile and found my trusty 8-pound maul had gone a-missing. I looked EVERYWHERE.

Some bastard had stolen my axe! What nerve!

Thus began a Sunday afternoon journey which tested my resolve and tickled my deep, hidden tendencies toward homicidal mania.

A cold, November rain was pummeling northwest Washington state that day, and I (as an atheist) was wholly unaware that people go Xmas shopping before Thanksgiving.

Little did I know that I was in for a notably shitty Sunday.

My first stop was a business known simply as "Hardware Sales". It's one of those enormous, cavernous stores with a century-old local reputation. Bearded contractors and cover-alled painters whisk busily through the aisles. Leviathan kiosks loaded down with billions of nails, nuts and screws creak drearily under the thumbs of hairy loggers. Power tools of every description lay stacked upon unswept floors. Coils of bare wire and plumbing equipment reach toward the ceiling.

This is a MAN'S hardware store.

And they're closed on Sundays.

For Jesus.

Damn!

Into the pounding rain I drove, my mind reeling for a mapped sequence of roads which might lead me to an axe. I live in a small city, and though ugly retail strips have been popping up like daisies, convenient access to real hardware is somewhat limited.

The next possibilty on my winding, northward trek was K-Mart. I seemed to recall that they had a big pile of power tools and automotive equipment tucked away in a distant corner where the "fashion" shoppers eyes might never behold a pneumatic jack.

Driving rain pummelled the streets and every christian family from Vancouver, Canada to Mt. Vernon, Washington was in Bellingham to shop. In fact, every single one of them was in front of me. They drove in mini-vans with V-6 motors; finely-tuned BMW's; purple Chevy pick-ups and monstrous Cadillacs with the V-8 Northstar engines capable of producing 280 bhp of screaming intensity.

Every vehicle traveled at 15 mph. On the highway. In front of me.

Bratty kids showed me their tongues. "Soccer Moms" cut me off then slowed to 10 mph. Jesus-fish bumper stickers abounded. Make no mistake: the CON$UMERS had arrived.

Freshly showered, underarms deoderized, make-up carefully applied and credit cards at the ready, the consumers had surrounded me on every side. Whilst lowering my window to get fresh air, I was devastated by the sounds of Soft Rock Cafe 99.3FM.

The assault nearly sent me to the shoulder of the road in screaming agony! . . . I cranked up "Ween" in retaliation.

"Take THAT, you media-driven, zombie bastards!"

Finally, my exit came up and I crawled my way pathetically into the K-mart parking lot. Weaving cautiously around the consumers, I found a convenient spot about eighty yards from the door. I slugged my way through the pouring rain and blackened slush, only to be greeted by numerous bloated housewives smoking cigarettes and a bevy of screaming proto-human toddlers run amuk.

Horrified, I reluctantly passed through the portals into K-Mart, whispering to myself:

"I need an axe. I need an axe. I need an axe."

The automotive department proved to be a more accomodating atmosphere and I soon felt relaxed among the beer-guzzling loggers and confused-looking college kids. There wasn't much there, but it led to the tool department.

The tool department's axe display consisted of four boy-scout hatchets with leather holsters. Fin. The End. Nada. Nothing. True to form, K-Mart had proved to be a totally useless waste of valuablereal estate.

Back I went into the slush. The pounding, relentless rain found its way into my collar and spread over my shoulders, shivering me to the bone.

My car's heater had conked out last summer (new heater core: $191) so I had no respit from the cold. I drove out of the parking lot and thought about retreating to home.

But home had no chopped wood for heat.

I needed an axe.

Several months ago, Wal-Mart bought a huge commercial lot close to the Bellis Fair mall, despite the fact that four gigantic, empty stores in the area were available for renovation.

I had not yet visited the Citadel of Corpoate Control. But my needs were great; great enough to brave four more miles of congested traffic, wet weather and clueless consumers.

The House That Sam Built had a parking lot which dwarfed the real estate of my entire neighborhood. Thus, there was ample parking 150 yards from the doors.

While slushing across the Icelandic macadam, I noticed that the new Wal-Mart had an entire McDonald's "restaurant" built into it.

A shudder ran down my spine;a shudder not felt in reaction to the shivering cold, but a shudder in reaction to the alarming horror that I was about to hurl myself into the Great Black Abyss of Consumer Hell.

Upon falling through the sliding glass doors, my first vision was a well-trimmed football husband looking over the Chicago Bulls sweatshirts. His "child", Evan, was pouting plaintively and pulling shirts off the racks. The man was shouting, "Evan, don't do that! Evan put that back up! Evan come over here! Evan! Evan!" Not once did "Dad's" eyes leave the rack of athletic stupe-wear to meet those of his recalcitrant offspring.

I needed an axe.

The place was a gigantic compound, every ailse teeming with perfumed humanity. I felt like a time-traveler from some Dickensian intrigue, aghast at the sheer number of unexamined lives and small-minded pomposity. They roved the aisles like a rambling horde of unaware slaves, gleefully touching the shiny objects and bickering amongst themselves in rudimentary English. Children howled, spouses argued and teenagers snickered.

I now realized it was a bad idea to smoke pot in the afternoon. For I was now on full-tilt neurotic paranoid mode. If I had stayed home, as planned, I could have written a new story and played guitar and ate some hummus sandwiches and perused sci.skeptic and re-arranged my zines and lit a nice fire. Instead, I was in Hell. Because some FUCK stole my 8-pound maul.

Pushing aside the Damned Souls and fang-toothed demons, I wrenched my way to the hardware department and scanned for axes. Seeing some cheap, 14-inch electric chainsaws, I knew I was close.

There, up the aisle, I saw what looked like a tall rack with long-handled instruments on it. Upon closer inspection, I found a half-dozen axe handles and two stubby, 6-pound mauls. The mauls were dull as dirt, poorly weighted and unevenly cast. They might be good for mashing down stubborn nail-heads, but they were useless for serious wood-chopping.

A befuddled sales clerk informed me that "dat wuz all we got" and disappeared into the sea of consumers like a bright red sailboat into the gloomy Pacific waves.

Furious, I battled through the onslaught of consumers, my eyes averted as the cattle chortled and spewed: Mom, Dad, Evan, Sissie, Jeffrey, Grandma, Uncle Ed. They were all there. And there was no doubt that I was NOT one of THEM.

I muscled my way past the Holy of Holies (the TV department) and busted out into the freezing rain.

Clutching my collar, I sloshed my way back to the car, my mind racing like a database, hunting for a source of axes which would end my baneful quest.

In the parking lot, oaf after oaf blocked my way, waiting stupidly for a family of six to load into a minivan and pull away to reveal a parking space 5 yards closer to the doors than the dozen or so directly behind them. Doltish grandmothers grasped moronically for a direction in which to steer their Chrysler New Yorkers. Troublesome teenage half-wits gleefully plunked McDonalds' soda pops into the cup holders of their '87 Camaros.

Fifteen minutes later I spurted on the street, frenzied and forlorn. I wanted very badly to go home. But I needed an axe.

A click or two up the street was a "wholesalers" outlet. I had joined for free recently. My ex-girlfriend got me in from her employer. It was a good place to buy 3 pounds of jelly beans or a gallon of mustard. But it's not a good place to buy an axe. They don't have any.

But they DO have shower curtains by the yard and cheap bicycles. Everything a thoughtful shop owner/contractor would need. Who needs tools?

That was IT for me. As I plunked my sorry, wet ass back into the carseat I decided to surrender. There would no axe for me tonight. I'd have to buy kindling for $3.99 at the grocery store and pick out some smaller logs to burn.

Defeat. Failure. Phut!

"To yield to the stronger is valor's second prize." -- Montaigne

It was time to go home.

Dreary rivulets of cold rain swept past my windshield. My wipers squeaked out of sync with the music on the tape deck. I stopped at the store and bought some fucking kindling, eggrolls and rice. My PO box had only credit card junk mail in it.

This day was sucking, hard.

+++++++++ ++++++++++ +++++++++++

Night brought sleep, which brought morning which brought work.

Fortunately, work also meant free time. And free time meant a short walk to "Hardware Sales", which IS open on Monday.

And there, among heaps of bandsaws, screwdrivers, hammers and crowbars was a complete rack of various axes and mauls. There were big, ugly horned axes splashed in fire-engine red paint; black steel mallets with fine oaken handles. And, of course, slim-headed 8-pound mauls with razor-sharp edges.

After a few fun practice swings with the 8-pound maul, I knew I had my new AXE. Somehow, the grizzled onlookers seemed to appreciate my discerning taste for large, violent tools. I was very proud.

I bellied up to the cashier's counter and plunked down my new Village Blacksmith #8 maul with bezelled edge and solid oak handle, "America's Premier Tool Since 1893 ...."

$23.99 + 7.8% sales tax. I forked over two sharp, creased twenties then accepted the change with a knowing nod. I was a proud axe owner. I carried it back to work with the head hanging down, pointing back. While glancing down at my new prize, I noticed a sticker on the bottom of the head.

"#8 MADE IN CHINA".

Huh?

Oh, well. It's a good axe, and if I remove the sticker no one will be the wiser . . . .

I took the bus home after work, enduring a short, cursory inspection of my "payload" by the alert driver. I promised not to hack anyone to death or demand to be driven to Cuba. She was OK with that and off we went.

Finally home, my virgin axe bit deep into its first load of aspen. With great shock and precision each log split neatly into bite-size hunks. Growwlllfff!!!!

I couldn't help but reminisce about my previous day's journey. With all this hubbub about "growth" leading society ever forward, one begins to question the aftermath of a "grown" community. How many useless Mega-Marts does one community need?

How many awful FM radio stations can be licensed in one city? How many vapid TV channels can be added to the cable line-up? How many vinyl-sided cubicle apartments can be thrown up next the highway?

And for God's sake, why does everyone keep procreating? What, exactly, is the end goal of all this humanity?

I sure don't know, but I fear it may not be so pretty a fate.

At least I have my axe.

. . . But please, don't worry.

I'll be careful.