Dear Miss Suzanne Heathcote (and Miss Emerald Fennell and Miss Phoebe Waller-Bridge, et al),
 
Can a screenwriter have any expectation of winning an Emmy, if she DOESN'T take part in MIx's game these days in helping stir up and chase down MIx's mice, you TV mousers you?  I don't suppose you outright hate me any more than I outright hate you.  Or you DO hate me and your other mice and are perhaps somewhat misguided in your hate, not knowing me and your other targets intimately and only being given some surface information about us of unknown quality, veracity, completeness and accuracy.  
 
Were the Piggie mask moment in the red light district at least a bit of yourself, bouyed up by immunity and the context of Me Too and a mortar lobbed in the direction of all those males who have oppressed your sex and others like the piggie man whom you perceive as oppressing your sex too?  I'm adult and sane enough (still).  I can take it.  Well done.  Short, sharp, quick, as was the broken neck in the hospital moment.  Shall I perceive that moment as a bit of a curse on your part as well as the usual mirroring?  A wish and a wink played to the crowd that is cooperating with the Game too?  I have to confess that I'm fascinated by the Eve/Villanelle duality (though I find the premise of the show a little silly).  I wonder how many Americans and Brits are also fascinated by it and who can't wait to see who Villanelle is going to murder next and how.  I wonder if such fascination is healthy for society (and me).
 
How about a little playful counter-curse vicariously through my temporary hostage, Merlin:  "Look into the eyes of the dragon and despair.  I destroy you and consign you to oblivion".  Yes, take a moment to evoke the imagery.  Goodness, that felt kinda good.  But no, I'd rather not practice your and your fellows tactics, and although Morgana doesn't prevail in the end, it's Merlin who gets a sword to the belly.  I'll just say, "May God grant you and your fellows what you deserve and myself as well.", if there is such a thing as a god and an afterlife.
 
You might ask yourself whom I have ever truly harmed or wished to do harm, beyond the Carrie-style revenge fantasies that all of us TIs probably enjoy from time to time, which I suspect you as a screenwriter may be mirroring, since we're free to do little else than work and labor.  Maybe I've vaccuumed up porn a little too freely in my life, stepped into some of BB's traps, vicariously enjoyed the visceral pleasure of watching people at least appearing to be thoroughly and shamelessly enjoying each other via that natural gift of sex, almost snarling and clawing at each other in their passion, lust and eroticism.  For me, the most erotic of them (often the older ones, but also the younger ones who are so lovely in the flower and enthusiasm of their relative youth).  That is the sweetest nectar, the sweetest vampire food in my opinion.
 
I agree it's true.  Maybe that lust is a kind of sickness, not righteous or altruistic in that way of an old testament God's dictates not to fornicate.  Debatable.  I wonder if you know how much I truly ADORE women, so much that I just want to take an adoring bite out of them (including Key from Children of Men in that she looks the lovely dark chocolate bar - another visceral pleasure of mine), and yes, particularly the attractive ones, maybe too fascinated by their beauty, their curves and their naughty bits, and too little interested in their dreams and hopes, which there is no way to dive into anyway in this virtual hell, which only pushes actual love and friendships farther and farther away.  Maybe I should pick up and read books written by women to know better your mysterious tender hearts, your problems, your aspirations and your dreams.  Maybe I should.  Since your tug on my chain was a bit firmer than most, I offer you herein some of my sins, one more layer of skin as it were.
 
Years ago, the President of IPST at Georgia Tech forced me to outright choose between my career as an engineer and going into continuing psychiatric treatment after confronting a personnel director as to the suicide death of an elder vice president of IPST at Georgia Tech and in response to my sending round to the offices of faculty and staff an early attempt at protest that I titled 'Open Letter to the US Senate'.  If you believe as he did, that I should willingly walk into the office of some ignorant (and therefore deluded in part by his own sense of expertise) or complicitous and conspiring psychologist or psychiatrist, knowing full well that the little bearded bastard would pretend the fact of the Virtual Guantanamo away and attribute my complaints to some psychological malady on my part, perhaps even as a false pretext for institutionalization, or sit there all the while just gritting my teeth and watching the lie playing itself out, then you are sadly mistaken and are a delusional yourself.  Yes, I was the original fool for being so stupid as to force the President's hand, I suppose.  I should have learned to play it cool like the mockingbirds always do.  But you can understand why I would have done so, while being a fairly recent inductee within the pressure cooker.
 
Of course I noticed the dropping of the name Faraday, since he often pops up in the science documentaries I like to watch.  And of course you probably knew that would capture my attention.
 
I have to assume that you quite enjoy writing out Villanelle's ruthless acts, presumably springing from your own evidently vengeful and vivid imagination(s).  Perhaps it's your vicarious way of enjoying a bit of revenge against little piggie people like me and her, your own revenge bouyed up by the gathering momentum of Me Too.  I assume you quite enjoy watching the finished product of your work in seeing the piggie man strung up and skewered like a pig (to the morbid enjoyment of the crowd of little piggies outside) by the little murderous and fascinating piggie herself, as you curtseyed your glib curtsey vicariously through her.  No wonder you change writers each season.  Maybe the morbid psychology of it all is just too much for one writer to handle year after year without going crazy yourselves.  Or are you ladies so anxious for the opportunity for some fun that you feel the need to share the job about?  Do you have a little piggie woman inside yourself who would just love to stick a real knife into a piggie man whom you have rendered temporarily and ultimately helpless and watch him bleed?
 
If I were to somehow have the chance to ask you and somehow get a reply (or was that bag over the head of the murdered Gemma a response to my own contemplations about how to suicide without botching it?), I assume that I'd just get an uninformative, "I'm just doing my job, loser."  And I guess that's just what I got.  Yes, we ARE losing aren't we, so perfect is the tyranny that you willingly take part in such that MIx no longer even needs to face the accused directly anymore, much less justify itself in law and all those cut corners that create a very real tyranny.  And yes, I was starting to wonder if we would even get our weekly murder fix, but you came through at the end.  You were making us wait till the end intentionally, weren't you?  It was a hoot to see Eve have a menage vicariously with Villanelle via Hugo in Rome, though I see nothing of myself in the Aaron Peel character (at least not his control freak nature - unless that be control over my own life), so that either isn't me, you've been grossly misinformed, or you're taking a great deal of poetic license or that's just the distortion in trying to tell multiple stories in the same context.  I admire your genius, I really do.  I do see a bit of myself in Hugo, though I haven't had actual sex in decades as you young ladies undoubtedly have.  Oh well, at least you've got the guy talking where many of your fellows have failed.  Maybe you and MIx have ten thousand similarly entrained in that way of the Game.  Maybe MIx will pay you a little more for that, even as my efforts to design and build a little automated pet feeder to sell independently are being stymied by MIx's means of causing equipment to malfunction, pushing me ever closer to poverty and homelessness.  Simply never being able to know for sure if a malfunction is due to a technical issue or to force unknown is enough to make trying to engineer all the more difficult.  It's all too easy to give up in despair at the attempt.
 
How could a mouse like me know for sure, having only your creative semi-fiction to work with in counter-evaluating and counter-judging you, I who am kept in the dark about everything and shown everything too?  Or you are thinking yourselves the angels leading us to the light as much as to our own destruction and doom, doing your part in keeping society purged (or at least managed) of people like me (and our sins) and society forever treated to the continual passion play of having some burning man on the rack and torture table for semi-public view, a partial warning to the crowd too, a crowd that is kept as ignorant as myself.  WAR IS PEACE.  FREEDOM IS SLAVERY.  Our IGNORANCE IS MIx's STRENGH it seems, in this highly compart-mental-ized tyranny, you Brits perhaps in a somewhat better position than other cultures in seeing through the Orwell, a man who added that and other very relevant gaming material to his ominous novel about a super tyranny that has for the forseeable future entirely devoured that semi-fictional world, just as the very real Game has in a sense already devoured this one (and my own).  Do you truly understand it yourselves, you who are in the media trenches?  How well are your own Game bosses insulated from you I'm forced to wonder.  How would a metaphorical yet altogether real devil work, if it sought to enslave the world?
 
If you think me the 'heel' as the 'bee stinger' just signed me in that morbidly and excruciatingly ambiguous and anonymous monotonic babble of its own, then I think you would be somewhat misguided in that too.  You don't really know me or any of your targeted individuals at all, do you?  Why would you?  You've never been made a slave on a very short leash like me, have you?  You were never subjected to any of the excruciating migraines and other remote neurological tortures of the Game, were you?  You've never been subjected to a thing that can reach into your very mind and your past experience, steal it all and share it about with talented people like yourselves to weave into your creative works, in what appears to this TI at least to be the most dangerously powerful, dangerously immune and dangerously well hidden criminal enterprise in human history, have you?  An enterprise that makes certain to preserve the porn shops (in the stores, alongside your own works on the cable dial and throughout the internet, saying, "Born in sin?  Come on in.", each of them having the obligative 'anal' section), 'simulated urine' on the shelves of some not porn shops but convenience stores as the righteous angels like yourselves skewer us for being so stupid as to actually come on in, either having strategic goals in their preservation or never bothering to gather the political will to do anything about them and police them up, those not being of any particular concern to yourselves.  You probably consider those to be tests of character and not enticements, entrapments and invitations to self-destruction that those at least in part actually are.  Like you, they profit from MIx's insidious business too.  Perhaps I'll get a clever empty remark from some character about orange juice or something equally perverse in its emptiness.
 
As I'm a simple minded fellow, which each of you have probably been made aware by now, who once had some promise at a much earlier age and who has squandered most of that through increasing age, in a passion for weed, and in narrowness of experience and effort and courage, and certainly in being unwilling prey for the Game.  I hope you'll bear with me, as I clearly don't approach your caliber of cleverness, intelligence and potence as writers and people.  Or most other people's for that matter.
 
It's truly a Catch-22 world and maybe that novel too was yet another mirror of the madness of the real thing, though I haven't read it lately nor studied it.  Whom have I ever truly harmed or wanted to do harm, except perhaps in revenge fantasy?  Whom have you helped destroy either in helping drive to madness, poverty, joblessness and squalor, to prisons under crimes of rage, extreme frustration and cognitive dissonance in little boxes from which there is no real escape, to institutions under false circumstances, to loneliness and despair, as you so consciously play a part in doing?  Oh sure, I've broken my former family's hearts, just as they each broke my heart in turn in their stupid service to the Game in their denial, their ignorance and their gaming.  Put yourself in the mind of poor Pink for a change and walk about in his shoes for a moment, if you can find the time.
 
By the way, there was never any 'sex with Daddy', which one of your characters snidely remarked, or anything remotely close to that.  Have you been lead to believe otherwise?  Have you been lead to believe that I would ever think to snatch a child off the street or that I fantasize about them sexually?  Of so, then you are misinformed about that too.  You might consider that the next time you are walking down the red carpet, receiving your Emmys, posing for glamour shots, even as I enter my thirtieth year of having known not so much as a kiss all the while and with little prospect for love and friendships in my own destroyed life and destroyed career.
 
If I were a good enough writer, I'd write a novel contemplating not the prospects of a world surviving the rite of passage of nukes, but of being so advanced as to ultimately and inevitably bring mind and brain within the realm of secret manipulation and engineering (a 1984 horror with a scifi twist) and its individuals somehow avoiding becoming little weary cells in a vigorous body of a perpetually enslaved society that invades other worlds not unlike that all too inadequately contemplated one in the film Independence Day, impotently contemplated only by the mere fact of their aggressive and destructive arrival.  Unfortunately, I'm not, and unfortunatly doing so would probably just serve the Game well too.  Maybe one of you talented writers could.  Are you ladies even aware that that is in fact a part of the Game?  Will this message even get to you or to the public, or just some incomplete and redacted version thereof?  Isn't it long past time for that actual public discussion on the real thing to take place?  If the devil himself (even if that devil turned out to be a metaphorical one, like some Terminator Genisys nightmare) were ultimately driving the train, would you screenwriters even know it? 
 
Am I for my part too much the Jean-Paul Marat?  Well, maybe.  At least I try to contemplate the points of view of both sides.  Maybe I should have accepted the social run-down and the bee-stings and the presence behind it, contemplated my own sins and mistakes and simple-mindedly called it God and just tried to quietly get on with my life.  And maybe sometimes a French Revolution must come, to yank the aristocracy back from their own fat complacency complete with wigs and makeup, the slippery slide to extremes in wealth and poverty continuing once again.  At least those are a matter of public debate and discourse, however intractable the problems wrestled with, unlike the Game, which is not a matter for public debate and discourse.
 
It's got to be done, you may say?  Well, maybe.  Though I would add, perhaps not in the way that it is currently being done.  We could have public knowledge as to the fact of it, yet keep public and captives ignorant as to the day to day operations of MIx et all.  They might lose some of the shock and awe of the initial capture and still keep the more enduring pressure of longer term captivity to it and finally legitamize it and steal away some of the best arguments of agitaters like myself.  And no one is allowed to speak of it publicly except in quantum language, doublespeak, newspeak?  Ugh.. in my opinion that's one step too far.
 
Anyway, jolly good show.  Double plus good.  Keep up the good work, ladies.  <Looking closer on Google>.  Damn.  Miss Heathcote's a hottie.  <Looking even closer on Google>  Eegad!  They ALL are.  Well, at least I don't have to wonder what to do should one of them have NOT turned out to be a hottie.  Can I have one of those piggie masks?  Got something in mind for it.  No, just a silly little play, dear, just a play.  Goodness, you've made me want to write a script too.  And might I suggest that if the series is ever cancelled, that for the last episode, Villanelle somehow provoke a full nuclear exchange.  It'd be her masterpiece, while she and Eve live it in Alaska, and Villanelle can kill a big ole grizzly each day to get daily murder fix!  Just a thought.