I am not certain if you will get this post. Not that it matters to these cunts in Pneuma, much less you, but in the time before the Rearrangement, my name was Jerry Segundo. My father, so my mum told
me, was a man named Bat. He was in the radio business. He died before I was born. I believe he drank himself to death.
They transferred me here from the Red Quarter three years ago. Three wankers threw me into a dark and dim cell and called me wild, brutal, and impulsive. Insert your bullshit modifier of choice. I didn't give a toss. Of course, you and I know, comrade, that we were just too damn honest for these puritanical pricks. I suppose the fact that I wanted to invert their smug, sanctimonious smiles and teach them a few things about reality had something to do with my relocation. I didn't go quietly. Did you, comrade? I'm pretty sure you screamed. I would have loved to be there. I heard from some unreliable face-ache and a bird who had a nice pair -- oh, did I have her later and get her to join our cause! -- that your fingernails scratched against the walls as they dragged you away. That's the spirit! As for me, all I really wanted to do was be left alone in the library to read the collected works of Rupert Thomson, the bloke who predicted it all many years ago.
I hope you got that CD-ROM working. I didn't hear a "Ta" on your end, but that's just typical of a fellow ponce in the Yellow Quarter. Never mind that I had to pull a few strings and snap a few necks to get you that laptop. Did you check out the archived website on the disc? The LBC? Crazy shit, eh? People were actually allowed to express themselves on this thing called the Internet. Of course, it was mostly anoraks and spacecases with a lot of time on their hand. Back in the days when you didn't have to smuggle books across the border. Never underestimate the White People for such illicit purposes.
Anyway, the disc should tell you all you need to know. That Thomson's books were overlooked, that there was an effort on the part of these people called "litbloggers" to champion them, and that his warning against the Rearrangement was largely ignored. A pity too, because I found it a gripping book. Never mind the ratty edges, but I've enclosed a dog-eared copy for you to flip through. Do tell me
what you think.
They're probably still picking my nails out of the wall. I can't believe they stuck you in the Red quarter first. Me, they had me in the green quarter first---amongst all those poncy melancholics. Me! Can you believe it? Shows what the bleeding government knows. I got tired of all the crying. And don't get me started on the Museum of Tears. Our taxes pay for that shite. They came for me after I bashed a few heads in---realized their mistake, they did.
Before the great "Rearrangement", I was Diane Ferbisher. I lived with my Ma and Da. Now I go by just plain Milly. I don't know what's happened to my parents. Hope they kept them together, though if I know those bastard goverment types, they split them up just for spite. My folks fell in love when they were sixteen, see, and they never stopped acting like two teenagers. Right embarassing when I was growing up. I don't liking thinking about them much.
I'd never 'eard of this Thomson bloke before I got that CD-ROM. How did he forsee this mess? And those LBC nuts? They never got tired of hearing themselves talk, eh? I'll tell you what, we're better off not being able to express ourselves. If I had to sit and listen to evey bloody wanker wax on about themselves and all their feelings, well, I'd have done something long ago. That disc you sent kept me busy for weeks.
I rightly enjoyed that book you sent--course it was dirty as all get out, what with having traveled via the White People. But once I cleared some of the muck off it and let it air out, I sat down for a good read. What a focking bright chap, that Thomson. He had the right idea, gettin' out while he could. I'll be sending some books back your way. Distribute them as you see fit. I'll see that this CD-ROM of yours gets into the right hands too.
Don't let those bastards get you down,