Comic: Old Man

I was a child fascinated by stuff, and my dad carried around loads of it. He traveled for work, and often lived out of luggage. I would rummage through his flight-case and toolbox at every opportunity. "What's this?", I'd repeat for each object.

"That's a modem..."
"That's a conduit cutter..."
"That's a RS-232 break-out adapter..."
"That's a terminal block..."
"That's a programable logic controller..."
"That's a damper actuator..."
"That's books on tape..."

Mom's giant purse contained ball-point pens, a paperback, faced and sorted cash bundles, and the severed hands of people that touched mom's giant purse. Perhaps stuff was body-strength limited.

She had a vast collection of friends who traveled with zero stuff. Sometimes Bob the bank-robber would crash on our couch, or Allen would set the couch on fire. The tools of their trade were cigarettes and the clothes on their back. 

It was clear that we'd either learn about stuff or die in a couch fire. So we were given access to dad's stuff for practice.

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