The TSA Agent appears. We’re both muzzled by face masks and there is a slight language barrier. To the best of my knowledge, the TSA agent wants to know how such a big cartridge fits into such a small handgun. Ten minutes of explaining fails to make him understand the ammo is for a rifle, not the 
“Frankengun.” He keeps holding up the hefty cartridge, saying there is no way it will fit the much smaller revolver, calling it the .458 A Lott, laughing at his own joke. Too long, Mr. Tank, too long. Lordy … Luckily the mask hides my clenched jaws.

After 10 minutes, he finally understands the ammo is for another gun, not the revolver. Now he fixates on the custom mold. I’m sweating bullets now, because I don’t want to have to pay my friend $200 to replace it, should it be seized. But the agent smiles while holding it. Hey, maybe he’s not as limited as I think?

"Ahhh, Mr. Tank, beautiful, my grandmother had one just like this.” Now I’m confused, thinking, “Why would she have a Steve Brooks custom mold?” Further examining the mold, the agent asks, “You like tea, Mr. Tank?” I’m thinking, “What?” The agent goes on saying his grandmother used a tea press like this when he was a small boy.

Again, he asks, “You enjoy tea, Mr. Tank?” “Indeed, I do,” is all I say as the Agent repacks my suitcase, loading it on the conveyer belt. Eighteen hours later I’m finally home, exhausted, everything safe and sound in my suitcase.

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