As required under our tenancy agreement, I am writing to inform you of my 30 days notice and my intent to vacate the hovel at 7 Stonegrope Court on or before November 14th.
Before coming to your kingdom, Lord, I had heard you spoken of quite favourably. According to a cousin of mine who has happily resided within your community, and your father’s before you, red meat was always in plentiful supply, the apple orchards bore fruit the year round and ale flowed constantly from tap to tankard. Upon my arrival this is not what I discovered.
My name is Sean McGeady and I have an infectious disease – acute viral rhinopharyngitis.
The onset of symptoms was slow. The virus presented little challenge to my immune system. But as the levels of infectious enemies increase so too must my effort to contain them. My body is at war with itself.
From afar I appear healthy but look closer and my sickness is revealed. Stem cells spawn white blood cells that wage war against opposing pathogens. I am a battleground. My capillaries are the trenches. My cells are the soldiers.
I am Sean McGeady, El Presidente, the sovereign ruler of the Republic of Tropico, a digitally elected overseer of a nation that has transcended its artificial nature as a populace of randomly processed pixels and become a conduit of my every presidential decision.
To fail a game is to fail oneself. To fail this game is to fail a nation – my nation. These are my people. I am their shepherd. When they starve, I starve. When they flourish, I flourish. Tropico is a nation of my best and worst tendencies, a reflection of myself. Holding it together is no easy task but I, Sean McGeady, will try my damnedest, come Hell, high water or rapid blood loss to bestow the Tropican people with a sense of national pride and a happiness previously unbeknown to them. For as El Presidente, it is my duty.