Moon Traffic Circle in the midst of being taken over by the protesters! This is turning into a huge situation!

I am so pissed. I can’t get the pickles sales pitch to gel. No wonder I am stuck in the junior advertising tier with pickles! A temp stuck with pickles!

The protestors have come back today. They say they will occupy Moon Traffic Circle. I don’t see how they can be allowed to do so. It is the largest traffic circle of the city. Huge. Every government building fronts it. Old Gildagad House. The Great Hall of Gildagad though that is just ceremonial. I hear they are secretly preparing it for a funeral just in case the old King dies of his wound. But of course no one will admit to that. The Upper and Lower Chamber of the Steering Committee sit on the circle. Well. Actually. The Lower Chamber. The Upper Chamber is too snooty to sit directly on a traffic circle. Justice Court. Olde Sheriff’s Court. Olde Sarjeant Gaol. You would think that would scare them off even if the gaol is just a temporary jail for the common run of the mill law breakers waiting trial at Justice Court. The Old Keep Prison and its ornate walk over bridge of sighs to the Common Law Court Number One and its modern wing which is an ugly monstrosity. Is protesting outside the traditional zone a common law misdemeanor? That will get them two days in Old Keep Prison or else a fine.

Motlam sit on the other side of the circle though the old insane asylum is being remodeled for some crack pot tourist something or other. Probably your typical boondoggle to squander tax monies. The antics of the protesters fit Motlam. The rambling old place has been under remodel for over a year and just looks like a money pit. I don’t know where the money is going because it sure does not seem to be going into Motlam. Why not demolish the old asylum? It is just another moldering old, old, old, building. The city has too many old buildings. Only the Uptown is zoned for high-rises because the Downtown is a gigantic concrete plague pit over an ancient Second Age sewer that is reputed to intern a prehistoric beastie that spread the plague that turned Downtown into a gigantic concrete plague pit. Ditto the South Downs. No build zone. Ancient plague pits. Only the Upper Heights is bed rock to burrow deep down which is what sky scrapers require. So only the highest third of the city sparkles with a modern skyline. The high-rises soar high up over us like steel and glass titans. The Upper Heights shine like Valhalla.  Like Olympus. Like the Docklands or New York. But it is Neverland because you can never, never go there.

Only bankers and stock brokers and jet flying billionaires can afford to live there. And the guy who owns my advertising company I toil away as a craven lowly temp in. He lives in the shiny world of ‘IGMFY’. Translation: I got mine! Fuck you!’ he lives there in a beautiful chrome and steel condo as if a demigod. He drinks his cocktails out on the chrome balcony over the skyline of the city as if he owns it. He probably does. Or least he probably owns a huge slice. Why can’t I be a member of the 1% who own 50% of everything? Including politicians? His own bought and paid for personal navigator to represent only him in the Steering Committee of Navigators? Where is the justice? While I’m part of the miserable 99% with own squat. Including no damn navigator who will give us miserable minions squat! So much for democracy! Money talks and ethics walks! Where is the justice of that? I saw him exactly one as he paraded through the lowly ranks of us miserable minions in the shiny halls of his advertising company like some damn demigod in his power suit.

Fuck. Life fucks. My life is Motlam that sits on the Moon Traffic Circle before with the protestors march. My life is Motlam. A gutted out shell covered by moldering scaffolding and torn signs advertising the bright future that will never come. A half baked remodel that promised so much but stands empty and never will be completed. Ancient misery that was suppose to be transformed into the brave new world of tomorrow today but instead stands gutted and empty. A grandiose shell game that proves to be a hollowed out shell of chicanery. The Chief Navigator has never seen a tax boondoggle he has not liked. He even turns old eye sores into empty promises. Hollow promises. Gutted out promises. But rumors say the gutting left the ancient basement iron cells where the violent lunatics were chained like animals. The Chief Navigator give us a gutted out promise of a bright future deferred as if a carrot rigged to a wire to be eternally yanked away whenever we try to snatch it while simultaneous threatening us with a stick of nasty punishment in as dark, damp, deep cell.

Moon Park flanks Motlam and Old Gildagad House. Tourists need that park to hang out. The protestors can’t take over Moon Park. What will the tourists say? It will really piss off everyone. We must not scare our tourists! How would the politicians commute to their chambers if Moon Traffic Circle is blocked? They would have to take the meandering black streets. And the key tube station is there for civil servants and bureaucrats to commute to their governmental jobs. I just don’t see how protestors can block access to governmental buildings. My life sucks. My life is Motlam. My life will never be the Upper Heights. All chrome and plexiglass and steel. My life will be Motlam. Damp. Dank. Deep. Dark. Rusting. Haunted with the stench of ancient death and the screams of long ago torment of people driven mad by envy and betrayal and despair.

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