Son, we live in a world that has bars, and those bars have to be guarded by bouncers. Who's gonna do it? You? You, Lt. Jenkems? I have a greater responsibility than you could possibly fathom. You weep on Thursdays, and you curse the bars. You have that luxury. You have the luxury of not knowing what I know. That J-Tree'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 at parties, you want me in that bar, you need me in the bar. We use words like funnel, blackout, Loko. 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 freshness 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 beer, and stand a post. Either way, I don't give a damn what you think you are entitled to.