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readmyscriptureBack home, there was no such thing as a newspaper. Instead, the news feeds were splattered all over your living room wall, neon-colored tits and chunks of political vomit and advertisements for genetic modification so you could grow that blowhole you've always wanted. Information was everywhere. Ads were fed into your head while you slept. Televisions were built into the streets, buzzing in the air, projected from people's skin so you could sit and watch someone's beer gut in the park. It was everywhere, yet everyone ignored it.
You fuckers have a better excuse. You've got scapegoats. AGI and Sero. I can't find a newspaper around here that doesn't reek of bullshit, and you all know it. You accept that there's an underbelly to this world that stinks and drips pus under your feet but you can't be arsed to deal with it.
It's easier to run away. I'm writing this from the inside of a shed that reeks of literal bullshit, since a cow just unloaded a steaming mountain about a foot away from me, because I can't come back. This City is quiet but it's just as filthy, and there aren't even any vending machine drugs or virtual sex machines to distract you from it all.
Despite it all, I've seen something I never saw back home: I see you fuckers working. I see you fighting. I see you squashed under the weight of something you can so fuck-all about, but you endure and you survive. I can't speak for the rest of the people here.
I want it all. I want your stories. I want every tiny goddamn morsel of information you can give me about this City and its people, the companies, and anyone you feel needs to be sniffed out. I won't come back to the City yet, but give me a reason to. Give me a reason to give a shit about you maggots. I can't fight for you and I can't save you, but I can tell you the truth.
If you stop killing my cows.
