London’s Burning

I’m in London. I was lucky enough to arrive in time see the local economy collapse like a house constructed of cards that are also coated in a poisonous nerve-toxin, so that when you try to build the house again, you die horribly. Canary Wharf burns like a sun in the distance, turning night into unquenchable daylight. Traders, naked save for crude loincloths stapled together from charred office supplies, dance on the roofs of skyscrapers while holding signs written in their own blood, or perhaps the blood of a co-worker. “Send brie!” That was one of them. The government and the police are paralysed. They have now cordoned off the entire financial district and left it as a kind of abode of anarchy, a fearful pit of hell where rival gangs of former traders fight for control of streets once paved with money. It’s like Escape from Absolom meets 28 Days meets You’ve Got Mail, and I need 12 million to make it. Call me on my cell.