Lette from the Founder
he refrain from one of my favourite songs, , by the iconic Misfits, goes, “I ain’t no goddamn son of a bitch, you better think about it, baby”. Increasingly, I think it would be a fitting epithet on my tombstone. I’m joking, of course — I have no intention of being buried, but rather immolated on a Viking pyre with my Patek Philippe 5970 on my wrist, clad in Cifonelli and alligator cowboy boots, Cazal MC Hammer shades clamped to my lifeless eyes, a Negroni in one hand, a pair of nunchakus in the other, a Behike 56 wedged into my
