| Choose
life. Choose a ship. Choose a cause to fight for. Chose a crappy sidearm
made from a kettle heater element and a trimphone extension cord.
Choose red leather pants, sky-blue polycotton mix blouses, belt buckles
the size of Elvis's head. Choose a snarl. Choose a fringe. Choose
having the shit shot out of you in a quarry in the freezing middle
of fuck knows where for fuck knows what. Choose your friends. Carefully.
Choose hope. Choose fear. Choose revenge. Choose going down in a hail
of bullets because it's better than signing on for a crappy Giro every
second week at the Department of Stealth and Total Obscurity. Choose
something. Choose Blake's Seven. Choose life. |