The notice arrived just now.

I thought it’d be a better day tomorrow; it’d rained for fucking days this week, but the red skies gave me rise those short hours ago, snapped those images of perfect sugar mornings back to attention in my head. Oh what shit! An omnibus of idealizations, fancied to the point where I really believed it for a while. Like I could pick leaves off of trees and they’d taste like mint, and the breeze would clear my head, and gently dictate the order of my day. But a new dictation has arrived, and the truth has replaced the dream, and I’ll thank them for it. I’ll thank the General when we’ve obtained the security we’ll need for thanks to have purpose. Fuck.

I don’t even know if we’re fucking related.

My name is Nutty Smallnuts.

And I am prepared to kill. 

Sir.