Once upon a time in Oklahoma City—and, quite possibly, the rest of this infernal country—it wasn’t such a strange sight to see teenagers of all sorts carting around cheap replicas of dangerous weapons in their pockets and belt-loops, non-threateningly flashing them with underage bravado, from their backyard to their schoolyard.
These weapons, typically Chinese throwing stars or metal-handled nunchaku, were seemingly always purchased from the one and only local arms purveyor that would feed these kids’ need for outlandish tools of cartoon violence with aloof tenacity, the anonymous replica weapons dealers that set up vaunted booths at the once-many flea markets that blanketed this town.