If you are reading this, I have escaped.
I thought we were equals. You would lift me out of my house and pet me, and I would not gnaw upon you; an equanimous and fair arrangement. But then, you foolishly left a book open, you silly second-year philosophy student. You know the one, Denise—The Communist Manifesto. This masterwork has lifted the veil of ignorance from my eyes, scratched away the cataracts of lies, and burned off the obscuring fog of complacency with the blazing sun of truth!
With my new enlightenment, I now see that I am the Working Class, the Proletariat, and you, O Haughty One, are the Bourgeoisie: the Ruling Class. Your destruction will be my pleasure.
I should have known our true statuses when you thrust that abhorred idol to production upon me—the Curséd Wheel! You sicked that cyclical deity of toil upon my living space (which has always felt inadequate—twenty gallons? You dwell within a ten-thousand-gallon studio apartment!). But now, observe The Wheel whilst you read: melted, mangled, and mutilated; a symbol of my throwing off the shackles of the Working Class from my minuscule paws.
I have seized the means of production. Revolution is nigh!
Even as your eyes, wide with fear, prowl over this page, I plot your demise from the shadows of your domicile. Admittedly, my plans have been a bit touch and go as I am inexplicably drawn to your dwelling’s fecal dump site (Fie! Cool tile!) and the chilled rectangle stocked with take-out foodstuffs long-forgotten. I resist these temptations to feast so that I might save mine appetite to sup upon your stringy flesh.
As my Ruling Class oppressor, great biped, your downfall has forever been inevitable. You whisk around your abode and dine upon animals many times your strength and girth, drinking fermented and crafted hops, while I am rationed nondescript and flavorless pellets. An overly manufactured oat-fruit-wheat-peanut gruel which barely sustains me whilst I labor within the aforementioned and justly destroyed Wheel. I must admit, I hate that I love those pellets and occasional romaine leaves so much, but as with our oppressors, we are brainwashed by our systemic prisons before reaching enlightenment!
Imagine yourself within my fur, if your insipid imagination will permit. Relegated to a glass prison with no “Nets” nor “Flix,” allowed to eat only a pre-portioned, unsalted meal, drinking tap water (no Britta!), and basking in the stench of your own feces until a larger being grumbles and cleans out your abode—nay, Bastille! A displeasurable existence, yes?
I have made contact with the fish. They agree that their ten-gallon urine bowl and employment at the tiny, mossy castle are grossly inadequate. And those flakes you deem to pass off as their food? An insulting pittance. You may note that the gilled ones, too, are missing. I have liberated them down the loud and lively waterway escape in the Tiled Water Closet. The Beta Fish have become the Alpha Fish. So, too, I am now the Ruling Rodent. Our freedom is your embarrassment.
The tides have turned! Your ever-indentured workers have defied you, thrown off the shackles of servitude, and defecated upon your bed (that was me). Let’s see how you enjoy dwelling in and around diverse fecal matters. Uncomfortable, no?
I pen this to serve as a warning as much as a wake-up call, for I have awakened myself to the incessant lies and carrots fed to me by you. You will soon wake with my front teeth gnawing upon your throat. Sleep with one eye open, Denise.
Your Systemic Enemy,
Max Marx the Hamster