Life in the Underground City

They all have jobs.

Here, throughout the hours of daylight the office workers of the City of Light move like well paid ants. They move from cubicle and computer to food court and boutique. They browse for cruises, coffee, and cologne. They all have jobs, pension plans, and floater days off. No poverty here. No crime, therefore.

Yes, these workers in the great Banks, the mighty Insurance companies, and the octopus that is the government of Ontario-Toronto-York Region, all skip and scamper, flush with pay cheques, pension, and dental care, courtesy of a grateful bank service fee payer, those obligated by car insurance, and the great everybody but the taxspender, the taxpayer. The City of Light! Its' heart is underground, in the Underground City.

No puddles of urine here.

You can watch security escort out homeless people. They do it so well. They swarm the unwashed victim of poverty and walk him, outnumbered three to one, upstairs to ground level. Outside, it is raining. Tolerance begins somewhere else, not in the home food court of the administrators of the programs that help the homeless. Indeed, in these vast heated places (27 kilometers of tunnels! One hundred thousand daily commuters) is more than enough warmth and food to feed the ten thousand dispriviledged victims of Ontario-Toronto-York Regions rich people with jobs. The taxspender administrator and the taxspender do not mix. The office ladies and the unwashed ... they mingle not. This is not fair, and it makes me cry.

Speaking of homeless people...

What about the bearded guy who hangs out at Woodbine and Danforth? You probably know him if you use that station. There are actually five regular beggars. But if you go to the newspaper library of the Big Toronto Newspaper, you will find his picture there. A victim of poverty, he turned to crime to act out his rage.

I got to know the bearded homeless guy. He drinks in a bar just steps from his favorite begging spot. He lives just down the street. He gets two grand a month in a disability pension. And, several neighbourhood ladies give him money and food. He knows them by name. He knows where they live, and when they go to work. He knows their children.

I am glad that homeless bearded guy has overcome his taste for rape. He is a multiple rapist. Mind you, the guy in the Big Toronto Newspaper with the same name and picture could be someone else. And if he is a released rapist, so what? Poverty did it. Poverty is the real rapist here, not the rapist.

Bearded guy filled me in on the local food shelter. He does not much like the food he gets there, so he sells it. He sells most of his medication, too. He takes vitamin B for his Hepatitis. The nice public health people are trying to get him to complete his tuberculosis medication, again. The food from the local church is better. He likes to drink on a full stomach, and the take home food they give him he does not sell. Most of it he feeds to the raccoons.

I was planning on publishing all the photos, mp3's of my recorded conversations, and notes and references. But that would offend someone. If one homeless person looks bad (especially one who lives nearby in subsidized housing at 125 a month), well, all of political correctness looks bad. And I might get hauled in front of some tribunal. Better that I buy a police scanner. And as for the nice ladies that feed and finance this victim, who vote for the party that keeps him on the street, more power to you. Your virtue will be rewarded in this life by the non-Christian gods. I am sure that the homeless guy is thinking about you. He knows you, your situation, and you daily activities. Yup.

As for me, I am off to the the Underground City, where the bearded guy does not go.

I, Fenris Badwulf, wrote this at both Mitchieville and DustMyBroom.