|
[30 Jan 2012|01:50am] |
Problems, my little pissants, with Market magic, with the juices running down on your charm and verve and titivating-titillating abilities?
Welcome to life, grand and glorious grasping race that it is toward mediocrity. Nothing up the sleeves, nothing in the hat beyond a dead bird and some dusty feathers -- magic as commodity and resource, not a right.
Got anything to say, got any grievances that need airing about the scum with a choke-hold on the revenue stream, commissioned and unconstrained mafiosos -- feel free to whisper it in Uncle Saul's ear, he'll make sure London knows the truth.
|
|
|
[08 Oct 2011|09:34pm] |
[It's a familiar hand to the network of journals: bold and scrawling, letters sprawling like a man who sits with legs akimbo and wicked grin and makes himself comfortable whether it's the wide-armed chair at work or cold metal bench in the drunk tank.]
It's not my fucking fault if Plod can't take a joke. Corrupt bastards the lot of them.
Anyone got two hundred quid lying around?
|
|