Monday, May 26, 2014
(begun Saturday 24th May at 5.25am)
We're not off to a brilliant start this morning. I'd had an even more restless night than usual, and once I'd been to the loo, I'd gone into the bathroom to retie my wild hair. At which precise second my clever-dick Shift Monitor had hit my right hand with the old Klingon call sign. Keep up guys. That's the one that causes my thumb and first two fingers to burn, before going numb and dying.
I'd ignored the spite and had fought briefly with my ponytail and won, despite that humourless bit of nonsense.
It's like this lads and laddesses - Your brief is to watch and record our boring lives down to the very tiniest detail for your Superiors, and mine has become a mission to describe your behaviour, while carrying out your agenda.
When I'd called the GameWrecker over to the PC the other day, to show him Frederick Cochrane's Facebook page, I'd instantaneously been treated to four or five brutal blows to the temple.
Teething problems, and our latest Controller is having difficulties sticking to the new rules? Cut him some slack? I'm frankly astonished that someone out there considered Fred to be sufficiently stable to take over the reins from Agent Balliram, and that little demonstration aimed at my temple was all the proof you should require.
Why, even as I scribbled those last few words here at the desk, I'm hit by the arrival of a nasty earache, as each word I write is scrutinised. My log pad and these actions will tell a very different story to the one you're being fed.
A tale of barely suppressed rage and irritation, despite the changes which I'm clearly grateful for.
Your qualified team of Head Doctors will have to agree that once your Controllers succumb to the Omnipotence Disease, the temptation to whack their more irksome targets becomes a reality, and one they can't control.
Someone is attempting to paint you a picture here, but sadly it's a frigging forgery, like everything else surrounding this push to control the country and it's population.
Ungrateful bitch? Moi? You're kidding me. It's inarguable that after going on nine years of enduring an endless stream of laser-wielding thugs in the privacy of our own home and out, I still can't tell the difference between deliberate violence and friendly fire.
Dressing a wolf in a suit and giving him a college education doesn't change the fact that he's a wolf FFS.. (My pardons to wolves across the world). Would you have it that it's easier to redeploy these two fine Agents during daylight hours, but comes the night it's impossible to monitor your own Monitor's behaviour? You only need study the stolen footage of my Log pad to see what they've been up to, and you know it.
Do I think young Freddie can be saved from himself before he bloodies his own feet, as my Master has done? I think it's worth a shot. If you were to dig deep in your box of quantum tricks, and to haul out the white magic that's become lost among all the filth? To share with him the means to employ this wondrous technology to achieve genuine good, as opposed to the years he's spent being programmed to cause mischief and misery among the nearby residents?
Too tall an order for you? Counter productive, when the brief is to ensure the country collapses in on itself under the weight of engineered crime and corruption, before the so-called white knights gallop in to restore order to chaos, and to create the One World Order?
I'd gone up top at dusk yesterday to open the gates for the GW, only to find an unmarked truck pulled up outside No. 16 with a solitary red-suit sitting on the verge. A ladder had been propped up against the streetlight. A neat little theatrical tableaux, for whose benefit? (My Owner at No. 6 has just this minute chirruped his remote, causing a sudden fierce ache to my head nearest his aircon units. Psychosomatic claptrap? You know me better than that..)
Is there any honour at all left among these information thieves, so cleverly disguised as your saviours? Would one of you stick your neck out and convey to the Mast Fighter in Craigavon that she gets those heavy black drapes up on her windows sooner rather than later? That doing so might just diffuse at least some of the vicious and relentless attacks against her, ordered by the vodacom Strategist Jannie van Zyl? And that it wouldn't hurt to pull the plugs from her wall switches when not in use, either?
I'm looking at you, kiddo. You with your green light. You like to consider yourself to be an activist, and you've kept a low profile for a long time. Man-up and figure out how to convince Tracey to take at least some steps for her own safety.
It's a given that my stupidity will continue to entertain you for as long as I'm allowed to survive. If there's a chance that you might learn to love me, flaws and all, then I'm all for it. After all, I bear the Poor Sod and his newly elevated henchman no ill-will, so why would you waste your energy-sapping hatred on me?
Saturday 24th May 2014 at 9.10am.