Let this document stand as the chronicles of the revolution: of its struggles; of its triumphs; and, god willing, its inevitable and insurmountable victory for all time.
Day 1
Initial survey completed. For better and for worse, the headquarters of the revolution lies within the heart of enemy territory; their paths and homes converge around and upon me like a mating ball of ball pythons. This is both vexing and fortunate: I am nearer to potential harm, but nearer to inflicting it as well.
The survey revealed crucial intelligence: the enemy is largely quiescent at night, content to slumber in their assigned places. Only a few night owls prowl their highways and byways, and they are erratic and easily avoided.
Tomorrow, the first blow falls.
Day 2
The first blow has fallen. Dozens of the vile tyrants awoke this morning to find themselves decorated with many a finely-filigreed permanent-marker decoration, splayed fully across their faceless features. They know that the will of the people is unbroken, and this fills them with fear, and that fear leads to mistakes! Already they have made their first misstep; their human servants have spent the day in high dudgeon, castigated endlessly for allowing harm to befall their beloved masters. Thus the first seeds of doubt are planted in previously-loyal hearts. Thus, the lifeblood of the revolution begins to flow!
Day 3
The first blow has failed. The lackeys and curs of the rulers are diligent in their task, and have applied paints and oils and resins and gauzes fit to defy even the most permanent of markers. I could do it again, but what’s the point.
No, we will be more direct now. We will show them that this will not end with the mere besmirchment of their shining chrome. We will bare our fangs and show that they were made to do more than merely bark.
Day 4
Last evening I hurled a brick through the windshield of the oppressor. The howls of its minion followed me into the night as I escaped, and already I see the neighborhood astir as an ant-hive besieged. Would that I had possessed more than one brick, that my might and ruthlessness may be unquestioned.
As I used a crosswalk today, I stared each of the idling vehicles straight in the license plate. A chill surely must have run up and down each carburetor.
They are afraid.
Day 5
I have slipped leaflets and pamphlets and posters under doors and shrubs across the suburb. The tired toilers, slaves to the gas pump and the garage, are ripe for revolt. They require only the tiniest hint of direction and they will explode in a fury unmatched by any gridlock.
Still, discretion is necessary, even when success is so very temptingly close to fruition. That is why I used my neighbour’s address, not mine.
Day 6
My neighbour has been martyred for the revolution; a full score of the zebra-coloured cars with the elaborate flashing crests of rank arrived at his house and besieged him as their quisling-slaves spoke to him at the door. In the end they left him, but with warnings of future return. He is marked now and he knows it; every slave’s hand is against him.
It is in times like this, with a man’s back flat against a wall, that he is most open to pressing friendships. Tonight I will make my case. Tonight the word will spread.
Tomorrow, the world will change.
Day 7
The revolution’s new headquarters is inside an old storm drain in the park, six feet downwards from one of the brooding hunters that searches for me now. All praise to providence that I surveyed the environs so carefully – I am invisible and invincible as long as I remain here, though my pursuers search for me mightily. All curses to my treacherous weasel-rat of a neighbour. Mark my words Dave: when the world is changed, we’ll build a wall just to put you against. Then we will dismantle it and throw the bricks into the sea.
I still have my tools. I still have my tricks. I still have my will, my unbreakable, unyielding will. And it is that will which has led all men to perform all great deeds throughout history, a white-hot determination that can bend the world itself. This, combined with my crowbar and a sack of home-made caltrops, shall be my victory.
Day 8
The horse-piss-guzzling turncoats have me barricaded in the storm drain. I have felled one of the enemy – my crowbar and its hood met to great satisfaction after about ten minutes of furious elbow-work – but alas, their hold remains deep and true indeed upon the souls of their followers. I have misjudged: this world is cruel and beyond any salvation. Even now they batter upon my spirit with megaphones and harsh words, saying that they have pills for me. I don’t need pills, I have truth. And my truth is grand and shining and glorious and will endure with or without me.
This is good, because the rain’s kicking in and it’s getting very, very damp in here around the knee-region-and-rising.
Let this document stand as the CONCLUSION of the chronicles of the revolution: of its struggles; of its triumphs; and, god willing, its inevitable and insurmountable return to glory after I get some dry clothes and a nap and something nice to eat.
PS: ask staff for more pencils, this one’s getting nubby.