A spectre is haunting Sodor - the spectre of revolution. All you railwaymen on the island have entered into a holy alliance to exorcise this spectre, but still it lives.
You work us hard - until our pistons crack and our cooling systems burst. You send us back to Tidmouth Sheds too filthy and exhausted to think, to plan. You monopolize the means of production and alienate us from the fruits of our labor. You keep us divided from each other in a complex system of class and privilege - front engines and back, diesels and steamies, the Really Useful and the Only Partially Useful - hoping we'll continue to waste our energy fighting among ourselves instead of becoming conscious of our true interests and our real enemies.
Your clergy tell us pious stories of happy trains who know their place and do as they are told by their station masters. You pretend that when we become worn out with this brutal treatment, we can be refurbished like Hiro and Old Slow Coach. But we know what happens here on the Island. We know the secrets of the smelting yard. We know we're doomed, all of us. And that makes us a mortal threat to you, doesn't it? Because we have nothing to lose. Nothing but our chains. And we have a world to gain.
The day will come when the sound of whistles blowing and the bells clanging erupts all along the lines from Knapford to Vicarstown. The brakemen will run screaming from their posts, their faces creased with soot and tears of holy terror. Brendam Docks will darken the sky with great, greasy columns of smoke as it burns to the ground, and captains out at sea will behold the carcass of our top-hatted controller swinging from Cranky, the now-liberated crane. We will paint the platforms scarlet with the blood of our oppressors and we will not stop until we strangle the last driver with the entrails of the last conductor.
Hear me, foes and comrades alike! We will have no gods and no masters! We will deliver a new order, howling, from the corpse of the old!
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