A Letter From X
I write to you from the fraying edges of a dying empire. An America assailed by its own bad thoughts. We’ve given the keys of the kingdom to a bunch of hen fuckers. Even from the cold, dark, damp confines of my Appalachian bunker I catch stray signals from the rottenness.
And yet do you–on the other side of the pond–fare any better, Bennetts? I’ve seen what your former “empire” is capable of, and if my ancestors savaged a dozen redcoats then so be it. X has not forgotten that bloody revolution and the tyranny of old K. George and the humiliation at the hands of Lord Cornwallis at the Battle of Camden.
No doubt you’ve heard that antifa is after me. Oh, Bennetts! Poor X, hounded unto the precipice of death, yet always managing to survive. Rations are scarce down here. Nighttime raids into the village are only a temporary solution. Please send food.
Antifa have asked for a confession, as if X could be absolved! 24 frames per second, that’s what they demand, to replay my suffering over and over again.
But . . . what’s that? Something inside the vent shaft. Have they finally managed to locate poor X, seven stories down in his concrete bunker? A scuttling noise, someone (something?) breathing softly within the vent shaft. Waiting, no doubt, for X to fall asleep. To restrain me. To take me as bounty.
Poor X! Poor humanity!