Left arm stretched out above my head. Fingers wrapped around brass. Feel the long strip of armpit hair, smell the soap and lingering scent of sweat. Feel loosened skin wobble and roll like waves in the ocean. Little stretch cracks along the baggy surface. Pasty, dotted red and blotchy with bruises and a long history (you’re young, they tell me: thanks for the bullshit). Skin can only take so much neglect, so much apathy and ruin. Wonder, if the machine is perfectly functional, is it a machine worth saving? Old man’s rough hands, years of mowing and lifting and dust and grime. So many fine lines already. The sound of old leather accompanies every clenched fist. The fist I rarely wielded. Mean faces and big displays scare off the little ones. The few who stepped up got their hits in alongside mine. Attack me, strike me. I am built for it. I am old leather, coarse hair, padded and prodded and whipped and whipped and whipped into submission and now superiority. An animal, a meat bag, bones and muscles and fat. You try what you fucking want. But wise up: do not dare to even look at anyone I have chosen to protect. Do not fucking dare. An animal can be pushed too far. An animal can commit heinous things. An animal is weakness of mind and pure instinctive rage.