Chainsaw Chicken stood at the mailbox holding a thick envelope marked OFFICIAL ACTION.
He had received many such letters over the years.
Some accused him of confusion.
Some accused him of tone.
One objected to the emotional impact of a coupon.
He placed the envelope on the kitchen table beside his coffee and switched on the television.
There, a woman behind a glass podium explained that a popular account had been deprioritized for safety. She showed a chart. The chart had no numbers. She said the word transparent eleven times and the word regrettably once.
Chainsaw listened carefully.
He had always admired regrettably. It allowed a man to smile while tightening the rope.
Mrs. Chicken entered.
“What is it now?”
Chainsaw gestured toward the screen.
“They say they are not targeting speech.”
“That sounds good.”
“Yes,” said Chainsaw. “Until they use every available tool except an argument.”
The commentators spoke of penalties, seizures, removals, emergency actions, accelerated procedures, and noble intentions.
Chainsaw opened his envelope.
Inside was a notice claiming ownership of one of his old stories, a poor likeness of Chainsaw in a drawing of his face, and—through a clerical adjustment—his web page, his mailbox, and the studio.
Mrs. Chicken set down her cup.
“The studio?”
“Community standards violation. The studio has been flagged. It’s the site of creation”
“For what?”
“Unregulated assembly.”
He nodded slowly.
“They think its efficient.”
Mrs. Chicken frowned.
Chainsaw straightened to full height.
“Madam, injustice always begins by selecting someone the room is comfortable sacrificing.”
The house went quiet.
Even the refrigerator seemed to consider it.
He folded the letter neatly.
“Today they say it is about danger. Tomorrow they say it is about policy. The next day they say it is about community standards. By then, your chair is already missing.”
Mrs. Chicken poured fresh coffee.
“So what do you do?”
Chainsaw took the cup, eyes still on the screen.
“The same thing small creators have always done.”
“What’s that?”
He sipped once.
“Keep speaking. Keep records. And never confuse procedure with principle.”
He slid the envelope into a drawer labeled:
THINGS DONE FOR MY OWN GOOD