"Consider the matter dispassionately, Mr. Foster, and you will see that no offence is so heinous as unorthodoxy of behaviour. Murder kills only the individual-- and after all, wha is an individual? ". . . ." We can make a new one with the greatest of ease-- as many as we like. Unorthodoxy threatens more than the life of a mere individual; it strikes at Society itself."
The Young Soldier It is not death Without hereafter To one in dearth Of life and its laughter, Nor the sweet murder Dealt slow and even Unto the martyr Smiling at heaven: It is the smile Faint as a (waning) myth, Faint, and exceeding small On a boy's murdered mouth.
The Dead-Beat He dropped, - more sullenly than wearily, Lay stupid like a cod, heavy like meat, And none of us could kick him to his feet; -Just blinked at my revolver, blearily; -Didn't appear to know a war was on, Or see the blasted trench at which he stared. 'I'll do 'em in,' he whined, 'if this hand's spared, I'll murder them, I will.' A low voice said, 'It's Blighty, p'raps, he sees; his pluck's all gone, Dreaming of all the valiant, that aren't dead: Bold uncles, smiling ministerially; Maybe his brave young wife, getting her fun In some new home, improved materially. It's not these stiffs have crazed him; nor the Hun.' We sent him down at last, out of the way. Unwounded; - stout lad, too, before that strafe. Malingering? Stretcher-bearers winked, 'Not half!' Next day I heard the Doc.'s well-whiskied laugh: 'That scum you sent last night soon died. Hooray!'
We're like a real family. Opinionated, argumentative, holding grudges, challenging each other. We challenge each other to be better than we are. That kind of thing doesn't happen at barbecues, at ball games, it happens on the job we're supposed to do. On the case. Put down the murder. The work itself is the most important thing. What we do is important. We speak for those that can no longer speak for themselves. And you're not gonna ever find anything like that anywhere. Not in vice, and not patrolling the grounds at Disneyland.