Good evening gentleman. Lately, I've been in quite the fuss over a dear dear lass I've been in such woe over, so much so I decided to explore the depths of society. OUT from the high class houses where my mother and father (god bless their souls) lie in their soil that is filled with the sign of feet in my house. While the first year offered a terrible stench per person but afterwards, it was so very worth it because their skeletons still lie in such a perfect position that I offer kisses not of love but of sheer jealousy due to the woe I've been through the past few weeks.

The first thing I noticed about you scuffy working class is all your houses are black. While back within the streets of chums and I, our houses are scrubbed yearly and are a perfect white colour, yours are pitch black. I place my white gloved hand onto a wall and remove it quickly, checking my delicate fingers only to realise they too had become black. What was this harsh black dust choking the colours out of the bricks of the houses?! I felt it would be important to find out how and why these houses were turning the same colour as my dear Reginald's skin. My butler whom lives off bread and water. Although I am often warned to keep him chained up at his posts, I trust him to walk freely around my house doing his chores. This is partly due to a right thumping I gave him and the slashing I gave his wife and dear children after last time he tried to run away. He was quickly caught and he was quickly dealt with.

I came upon a young boy, resting his dear heart again the black. His clothes were torn but yet his spirit looked strong as he rested with bread in his dark hands. I knelt down, clutching the hilt of my staff and asked him "young child, was be your name?". He lifted his head from his dry food and squinted at me. He finally commented "Thomas sire, my name be Thomas". His eyes were thick with darkness. It was obvious this child wasn't part of the slavery family but rather dark with dirt. I pitied him but yet knew it be his own fault for not being born into royalty and getting a real job. He then cleared his throat and dried it. I knew what was to come and I was ready. I got back onto my feet and placed my left hand into my coat pocket. My right hand remained on the staff's hilt. He finally blurted out "please sir, may you spare me some coin? My family is starving and we just lost our jobs".

I was ready.

I swung the staff against his cheek and he fell down crying. I then started to beat and bruise his torso. He coughed out tears harder and harder and this excited me more and more. But, I stopped. I knew this wasn't the time to excite myself with these ideas and actions of glory. "Get a real job you ignorant child" I told him as I left. He would most likely die slowly and painfully and this made me grin to myself. However, I then imagined him tucked up in bed with his family stroking his head trying to hold onto his soul as strongly as could and I was filled with enough disgust to want to kick a stray dog. I then noticed something on my cane. A bit of child's blood? I removed my handkerchief and wiped it off. Realising it would be forever ruined with the taint of working class scum, I threw it away. I was sure out of the corner of my eye, some children fought over the handkerchief and ended up ripping it.

I returned back to my state home where upon I had to have a glass of whiskey to cool my nerves. This was not a terrible or good day, but rather a fun and interesting one that added as a reminder to something my dear old father once told me "I don't understand the term "working class". We do all the work and all they do is beg and plead for food, water or money. Being pathetic will not help them but rather push them further into problems, begging for short term solutions like food and water and are not willing to try for the further long term solutions like getting a good education and bloody good job". I spent the rest of my day getting horribly drunk, hit Reginald once or twice, kissed mother and father and then tucked up in bed reading this great ghost story called Red Room or something mighty similar. It is simply splendid how short yet descriptive it is. The verbs flow like a river carrying likely one of those scum's heads. A river of pure darken blood of the working class.

That'll teach them.