Smoky air, fedora and billboards, testosterone-fuelled dreams. the purest of all male forms in its finest yet darkest days. Who run the world? Men. The sweat pouring off of the masculine brow that controls what we are prohibited. The lights of Morris Minors flooding the streets. The watchful eye that sits upon the ashes. They’re in charge. Them, and only them. A red right-hand to those anti-them. They will tear you apart if you decide against pledging allegiance. Or you’ll end up in the sand.