I actually, am dead.

Mr. Latimer, you are missing something, not only in that abnormally sized cranium of yours, but also in your surroundings.

That's right, your egocentric, short-sighted eyes see the world like those of a fish looking from a spherical bowl down a long dark tunnel, a resolution commonly reserved for those with the hardware capabilities of a toaster.

Your quality of vision is equivalent to a half-done coloring book by a one armed blind child with the flu, while the rest of the world has gone to high definition home theater systems.

What I'm saying, dear boss...is that you're out of date, behind the times, lost in the past century, collecting dust, rusting at the hinges! I think it's time you let go of your rock hammer and let the youth in this world take over.

Except...I have yet to mention what it is you are truly missing.

You see, that rock hammer of yours, and that museum-artifact-of-a-whip you still use, they may be out-of-date, but they still hurt. So long as the withered system is run by the ancients, the young shall forever be oppressed!...and hurt, may I repeat. You have pinned me down for too long.

That's right, you have overdone it, you have ruined your chances, and all because you're blind. When your eyes bear down upon your employees, you still see slaves.

And now...even now...as you corner me here with your fists and animal rage, you are about to realize that no punishment can touch me. I am now untouchable. You have ruined me. You have overrun your horses. That's right...you have killed your slaves.

And so, Mr. Latimer, if you were to truly open your eyes...you would see that I, actually, am dead. And you...you are the one responsible for killing me. The blood is on your hands. And you can never undo that...

 .

 .

Unless you give me a pay raise.

The End

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