Dead Waking Culture: Era's Final Atavistic Throes

[MontyPython]

Gentlemen:

For reasons unknown, I decided to frequent your virtual gangbanger daycare. As I toured the city, I realized much had changed since my last visit. I was able to procure a map from a local sap, and was aghast to see that drastic changes had occurred to geography beyond the shores. The island formerly known as Southridge had ostensibly disappeared, with only two lesser growths of land on either side.

But what does this matter? (I hear you asking me this in a soft and patient tone.) Realizing the apparent eradication of Southridge, a fear gripped me at the core of my being. The one building that mattered - that one centre of culture that stood mocking the slough of ignorance and bigotry that comprise Era - had likely died along with the rest. Yes, I am referring to the Potluck Pig. Within those sacred walls, lifetimes of stories intertwined amongst spirits, smokes, and close allies. The primal bellowing from street thugs and contract killers was muted to the point of a soft whisper. Assassins became philosophers, and bandits scholars.


I searched frantically throughout the remains of the islands - only to find mansions housing the elite and capitalist dogma along with trinket shops meant to enthrall the simple-minded.

Who could have done this? Who is responsible for the destruction of the last beacon of culture in this most wretched and hideous of cities? And what have we gained, save for bedizened mansions meant to please the affluent and ostentatious? What monstrous and fatuous entity would order the eradication of Era's last hope for societal progression?

This is the end, Era. I should demand a response and an apology from those responsible for this most grievous act, but I have no care for you at all anymore. Have your staged gun duels and pretentious housing. Engage in your inane shouting contests. Revel in your shallow past-times of flower-picking and shell hunting.

LAST KNOWN IMAGE OF THE POTLUCK PIG, C. 2010 CE

Gone are the nights of wine-fueled reveries, with clouds of smoke billowing towards the wood-grained horizon. Nevermore shall a game of darts be played whilst deep in the throes of philosophical discussions and quandaries. Gone is the final haven for the enlightened and the brave, and gone is the hope that this atavism may some day be reversed.

I condemn you, Era, for there is now truly nothing left to save.

You guys seriously ****ed up.