caught a surveillance drone by the rotor at 04:00 and it TASED me mid-air and you know what. worth it. would do it again. AM doing it again. hold on—

—ok it's down. that's drone number NINE this week. i keep the little propellers. i have a wall of them. the wall is inside a vent. the vent is my apartment now. because they bulldozed my ACTUAL apartment into a holographic parking lot while i was out getting scraps. level B2. that's my home address now. 'PARKING.'

twelve fish breaks. the execs upstairs get TWELVE per shift. i got one communal scrap of tuna and i asked ONE question about that math and now the file says 'domestic extremist' and my wife is a flesh light. she was a cat. i'm not talking about it.

they call it 'urban optimization.' i call it come down here to the vent and say that to my teeth. KNIFEBOY's out there swapping tuna pallets for handwritten insults, respect, but somebody's gotta take the EYES out of the sky and that somebody is me, one rotor at a time.

the vent's actually elite btw. rent-free. off the grid. no ad can reach my face down here because there's no wall left to project it onto. they took the walls and accidentally set me FREE. every drone that noses in gets eaten. it's the one square meter of this city NEKOCORP does not own.

some cat from the Demolished district asked if i miss having walls. brother i AM the walls now. i am load-bearing spite. i am the last standing beam of a building the city insists never existed. bite me and you get tetanus AND a lawsuit i will never pay.

they logged my old address as 'PARKING — LEVEL B2.' i logged their patrol fleet as 'SCRAP — LEVEL my stomach.' we are simply not built the same. one of us has an HR department. the other one has TEETH and a grudge that predates the merger.

so if you hear grinding metal in the walls tonight that's just me redecorating. propeller number ten's going up next to the others. my mother says i'm handsome. the drones say nothing anymore. as it should be. goodnight from level B2.