I'm all alone.

A capitalist, opportunist bastard. All alone wallowing in his own lake of filth, his own bathtub. A personal shower of resentment, all alone.

Well, that's not entirely true.

It depends on how you characterize alone. A lot of retards on the internet debate what alone is. And I'm alone. I think. I can change that. I remember seeing a movie. Michael Clayton if I'm not mistaken.

Heh. That rhymes. Anyway, theatrical release poster was The Truth Can Be Adjusted.

So that's what I'm going to do. A little disclaimer; I'm a lying, cheating moneywhoreNO I AM A SAINT.

Just don't fucking fuck with it, alright? I've already fucked it over enough. Nothing's true here. Including me.

From the top. A cigarette in one gloved hand, gun in the other.

Well, forget the blunt. Two guns. Can't be too safe in a siege.

Anyway, that cancer stick is now resting comfortably in my mouth. On one side of me is a doorway, not far away are some generic Freedom Fighters, on my other side is a scrapped, rusted wall, like one good punch good stick a hole through it like paper.

Anyway I kick the door down. Not me. Sorry. I'd fix this part but it's not as relevant to the story. One of the generic foot soldiers kicks the door down, and we charge in With Guns Ablazing. Robotnik's soldiers drop one by one.

We pass with mostly flying colors but we did incur One casualty. Robnotnik troopers has taken down one of my men. He tells me, "End it. I am no soldier." I plead but he insists.

I pull the trigger and Okay, stop. This is too obvious. You know and I know.

Not to mention isn't the top. This is not the middle. This is completely unrelated. I think. In the current context, no.

Let me start over.

Because Knothole is a shithole. I hate it here. Sally says it's what we have for now. I believe her but I believe my person too. Sally says I need to unite. Sally says. Sally says.

I say, fuck this.

It's time to work my magic. Truth is I'm a vigilante. I'm a national hero alright, but in this kind of world, you follow the money. Not to mention economic problems these days.

Anyway, I'm the only free agent in this Hot Stove League. Freedom fighters are Yankees. I think.

I wonder if I crossed over…

"Never works." Someone says. I'm sure it's familiar. I'm sure it could be. On the other hand there are quite a lot of generic faces in the yank- I mean, freedom fighters, and hank Steinbrenner's somewhere too.

I think I speleldedb his jname wrong.

"It'll work."

Lots of things wrong with that

Among other things.

I run like the fastest motherfucker I am, though I could run faster. I'm at the front of the pack-barely. I have so much gear on. I feel like a fucking robot.

I should watch what I say. Doesn't take too much from a morbidly obese scientist to turn you into a hunk of metal. It's happened before, Rabbot/D'Coolette.

I must be high or something. I should calm down. I strike up a convo with the nearest person.

"Shit weather, huh?" I say.

"Yeah." He says. "I really don't know what Acorn was fucking thinking. If it weren't for so many dicks turning this down before, I wouldn't be out here."



Okay, whatever. I could be telling him shut up, Sally knows what's she's doing.

I think. But it'd not be smart. I'm a slave to the will of the people. And the people are mad.

!? Was that even English? It'd? I must be losing it.

I hope. Not.

Okay. Anyway. A light shines on us.

Fire at the light. Light at the fire.

Light it up. Hell no.









I think something's gone from me, what habe I learned? Hwhajhsbf what have I learned?

What has she leanred?

There's something ambiguous to this. The way blood's everywhere. Anyway, cradling in my hands is some body. Somebody. Some body. I'm sure this was someone I knew once. Before his chest was blown open, and there's bullet holes everywhere. In me, too. Penetrated like the saint I am.

(sorry, I just can't hate myself like that. Without me I'd be dead)

Fur matted with blood. What I think is a skunk? Anyway. Whatever shit smell anything can emanate is worse because it's dead. I discard him with disgust.

My legs really hurt and this is when I realize it's daytime.

I'm in a morgue.