Observe how the letter V always appears in the heroic language and insignia of the militarized world: "Valeria Vicesima Victrix", catchphrase of the infamously sheep-skin clad Legio XX, garrisoned for centuries far from their sunny homes beneath the gray skies and relentless rain that battered those dense green forests and wild heather-heavy plains of Roman Britain. And today, when only the archeological coins of those long dead legionnaires remain, we still associate some vaguely Churchillian concept of victory via valor with this most warlike letter called V, the camouflaged commando of the alphabet who clandestinely creeps across international borders, ill met by moonlight, cunningly disguised as a U:
"I will tell you nothing but my name, rank, and serial number, which is V V V V V V V."
"That's not a number, pig dog spy."
"It is if you're a Roman, you Nazi swine, it's 555555. Did they teach you nothing at Gestapo school, Fritz?"
"Silence!"
Anyway, as you may have gathered by now, V is my favorite letter and so I've not been mean to it at all.
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