that if I said “one more word,” they were going to “lock me up” and make me “go Greyhound the rest of [my] life.” “I have that power,” one security guard growled at me ominously.
Hmmm... Greyhound for the rest of my life, eh? You know what, Skippy? I think that's a
splendid idea. I am absolutely sick and freakin' tired of paying through the nose for the dubious privilege of being treated like cattle by you and your little pack of cut-rate Napoleons. I'm not setting foot in an airport again without a gun to my head. I hope you and your families freeze in the dark, Ace.
"Why do you want to 'speed up' the process? Do we work too slow for you? Do you think we're a bunch of postal employees? What are you hiding?"
"No sir. Postal employees, while often ponderously slow and tediously officious, are actually delivering a desired service, albeit inefficiently, in exchange for valuta received. You, on the other hand, are merely wasting space and oxygen. What I am hiding is my utter contempt for you and the bleating, sniveling society of grass-eaters that you represent."
"But it could save lives!"
I. Don't. Care. And neither should you. How many lives saved is your dignity worth? How many lives are a fair trade for your Principles? Your rights? A million? A thousand? One? Half of one?
What are your Principles worth?
How much can I get for a dollar, honey?