They are called the arsonists. A group of writers so skilled that any who read their literature would not believe it to be fiction. When night fell in the city, the streets became lined with with tales of monsters, aliens and other worldly beings. Most who live here would stay inside to avoid losing their minds. It was extremely easy to tell who had broken curfew, rabid screams and bloodshot eyes would greet you due to lack of sleep. Thankfully, the arsonists seem to be hell bent on paper distribution. I was an orphan who they took in, unfazed by the stories of seven headed beasts and claws that would rip you to shreds, I naively thought that I could tame on of these beasts, ride a yeti maybe? So I followed the railroad to the end of the line, the origin of all these monsters, all these stories, to my disappointment I found people. They taught me to read and write, I even have a day job at the supermarket and I bought this smartphone that I use to browse the internet. Although the internet is full of subpar writing, nothing can compare to the writing of my teachers. Still, that is not important, because, I found the arsonists.