The smell of gasoline greets me in morning, for I am Rush's prideful mascot- hope for the western world, labor in a self-contained package. Leather hugs my hands and great boughs crumble under them. A destroyer of the opportunistic immigrant, I twist my heel into the face of change. What could stop this wielder of 40 rotating knives as he tears into the shame of the east? An exorcist, a sonic burst, one million thorns- not one could subdue me as I get off to the smell of gasoline and take my leave.