Son, we live in a world that has walls, and those walls have to be guarded by men with lugs. Who’s gonna do it? You? You, Lt. Sinyard? I have a greater responsibility than you could possibly fathom. You weep for Nervex, and you curse the silver brazers. You have that luxury. You have the luxury of not knowing what I know. That Bocama’s death, while tragic, probably saved lives. And my existence, while grotesque and incomprehensible to you, saves lives. You don’t want the truth because deep down in places you don’t talk about like in stupid blog texts about steel bicycles in the pro ranks, you want me at that bench, you need me at that bench. We use words like shoreline, tolerance, beauty. We use these words as the backbone of a life spent defending something. You use them as a punchline. I have neither the time nor the inclination to explain myself to a man who rises and sleeps under the blanket of the very elegance that I provide, and then questions the manner in which I provide it. I would rather you just said thank you, and went on your way, Otherwise, I suggest you pick up a 12″ half-round bastard cut file, and stand a post. Either way, I don’t give a damn what you think you are entitled to atmo.
All This By Hand
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