CSW - Slack Channel

I saw the beast under yellow streetlight first, crouched like sin on asphalt—coiled, not sleeping. You don't tame something like that. You don't name it “motorcycle.” This is the Triumph Rocket 3 Storm. And no, that’s not a name—it’s a warning written in chrome and flame. Three cylinders the size of my regrets. Pipes like brass knuckles welded into the side of a cathedral. You ride this thing, and the world doesn't just pass you by—it runs for cover.

You ever sit on a tiger? Not one of those caged, tamed circus cats. I mean the jungle-ripping, man-eating kind. That’s what it feels like. You’re not riding. You’re holding on. Barely. It purrs under you with a low, bone-vibrating growl like it’s amused by your arrogance. Twist the throttle and it roars—not like a machine, but like something that remembers when gods used to walk the earth. Not a sound, but a sermon.

And hell, there I am—boots down, sky burning, palms sweating leather and oil. Helmet wrapped around my mortal head like a joke. I look like I know what I’m doing. The bike knows better.

People stare. Not at me. At it. At the engine gleaming like a foundry heart, the pipes curling like serpents, the storm-red tank that could make a preacher drink. It’s not for show. It’s for conquest. The kind that comes on two wheels and leaves dust and decibels behind.

Tell your friends. This isn’t a toy. This is a goddamned reckoning. A confession screamed at 140 miles per hour. A hymn of combustion. It’s judgment day in black tyres and horsepower, and I ride at the head of it grinning like a man who’s already danced with the devil and come back for seconds.

Scaling Bitcoin is like riding this bastard machine—raw, untamed, built to roar forever if you feed it right. You don’t cap the throttle on something meant to fly, and you don’t cripple the protocol with cowardice and talk. You open it up. You let the engine scream. Bitcoin was meant to scale—no damn limits, just pavement and fire. Like this bike, it’s built to run long after lesser things have broken down, stripped their gears, begged for mercy.

You build it to last, or you don’t build it at all.

CSW
Apr 9, 2025
https://metanet-icu.slack.com/archives/C5131HKFX/p1744184928957429?thread_ts=1744184928.957429&cid=C5131HKFX

www.group-telegram.com/us/CSW_Slack.com/6798

324 viewsRamon Quesada.🇻🇪, edited  Apr 9 at 13:15

I saw the beast under yellow streetlight first, crouched like sin on asphalt—coiled, not sleeping. You don't tame something like that. You don't name it “motorcycle.” This is the Triumph Rocket 3 Storm. And no, that’s not a name—it’s a warning written in chrome and flame. Three cylinders the size of my regrets. Pipes like brass knuckles welded into the side of a cathedral. You ride this thing, and the world doesn't just pass you by—it runs for cover.

You ever sit on a tiger? Not one of those caged, tamed circus cats. I mean the jungle-ripping, man-eating kind. That’s what it feels like. You’re not riding. You’re holding on. Barely. It purrs under you with a low, bone-vibrating growl like it’s amused by your arrogance. Twist the throttle and it roars—not like a machine, but like something that remembers when gods used to walk the earth. Not a sound, but a sermon.

And hell, there I am—boots down, sky burning, palms sweating leather and oil. Helmet wrapped around my mortal head like a joke. I look like I know what I’m doing. The bike knows better.

People stare. Not at me. At it. At the engine gleaming like a foundry heart, the pipes curling like serpents, the storm-red tank that could make a preacher drink. It’s not for show. It’s for conquest. The kind that comes on two wheels and leaves dust and decibels behind.

Tell your friends. This isn’t a toy. This is a goddamned reckoning. A confession screamed at 140 miles per hour. A hymn of combustion. It’s judgment day in black tyres and horsepower, and I ride at the head of it grinning like a man who’s already danced with the devil and come back for seconds.

Scaling Bitcoin is like riding this bastard machine—raw, untamed, built to roar forever if you feed it right. You don’t cap the throttle on something meant to fly, and you don’t cripple the protocol with cowardice and talk. You open it up. You let the engine scream. Bitcoin was meant to scale—no damn limits, just pavement and fire. Like this bike, it’s built to run long after lesser things have broken down, stripped their gears, begged for mercy.

You build it to last, or you don’t build it at all.

CSW
Apr 9, 2025
https://metanet-icu.slack.com/archives/C5131HKFX/p1744184928957429?thread_ts=1744184928.957429&cid=C5131HKFX

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