Get Your Free Goodie Box here

Taliban Telemarketer by Kim Cancer - HTML preview

PLEASE NOTE: This is an HTML preview only and some elements such as links or page numbers may be incorrect.
Download the book in PDF, ePub, Kindle for a complete version.


A Fucking Novel by Kim Cancer

All Rights Reserved, 2019

--101010-dark-TT: 107, 165, 237;

--101010-dark-TT: 37, 129, 223;

--101010-dark-TT: 252, 142, 230;

--101010-dark-TT: 250, 210, 207;

--101010-dark-TT: 246, 174, 169;

--101010-dark-TT: 242, 139, 130;

--101010-dark-TT: 238, 103, 92;

MORNING: The punching alarm clock ended my regeneration.

My alarm clock is a robotic arm from my FRED Corp. SUNNY sani-BOT, and it slaps and punches me awake every work morning.

Off-days I schedule it to tickle me.

It was 5:30 am, and the chore of going to work rained upon me in fierce head-slaps.

Morning blobs of sun trickled in, through the torn garbage bio-bag curtains, slicing sunlight into my dark concrete box.

I slapped back at the alarm, which disabled it, levitated my naked body upwards, and swiped my hand machine as I usually do first thing in the morning so I could check CHITTER.

After CHITTER, I’d watch news, catch up on deadlines from the Fucking News Channel STREAM.

On my hand machine I scroll the CHITTER exchanges, emotions markets, mucker index levels, forecasts, disaster forecasts; radar for accidents/incidents, rallies, events, weather in my vicinity, so I could decide which/how mods, body armor I’d require, which route to take to work….

It’d been years since Congress legalized violent crime, abolished all gun laws. Laws only penalized crime against the Class A (Class A– Uber, Premium Class, generally the wealthy, politicians, connected...)

Most, including myself, were Class B – Useful; then there were the Class C- Obsolete but redeemable; and Class D- Unemployable/Expendable.

(Class was decided by several factors: FRED, wealth, education, employer, friend and acquaintance ratings, reviews.)

For anyone outside of Class A, as well as those in it, being anywhere in public spaces without government subsidized body armor, armaments, was akin to suicidal.

Checking CHITTER, no active muckers, disasters, accidents, fires, weather events were on the radar, so the day was off to an auspicious start…

I rubbed my temples and opened a hologram feed STREAM for The Fucking News Channel.

President Bigfoot III was giving a speech in the auditorium of an underwater naval base, talking in panache, prepositional phrases, abbreviating his plans for the economy and the Cyber War.

He wore a navy-blue skirt, black vest, a white dress shirt with rolled up sleeves, silk red tie and on the heart of his vest he had a small rainbow American flag lapel button.

A sasquatch CHEWBRONNI, hairy as a gorilla, his wavy pink hair was combed and parted to the right.

He squinted his bright blue eyes as he spoke and was smirking awkwardly, twitching.

There was a crowd of maybe 20 sailors, in Village People attire, all with mustaches, synchronized dancing and strutting behind him as he spoke.

President Bigfoot III paused here and there for questions from his spirit animal, a pet graybeard baboon he held on a chain leash.

Triangular American flags flew from rafters above the stage, set ablaze, burning bright sweet red.

Small American flag graphics flew in the top left corner of the feed, twirling crucifixes touched.

The Cruel at the bottom of the STREAM splayed e-SPORTS news, scores.

I walked over to my kitchen (which isn't too far from my bed since I live in a small s-unit in a vint puke pink art deco hotel turned condo) and I slick on the automatic rat shit coffee machine.

I opened the door to my small refrigerator BOX, which was possessed by the ghost of Ezra Pound, and took out some cockroach milk for my tangy sweet/sour crispy grasshopper cereal.

There were leftover Burmese food takeout cartons (roast python) in the fridge.

SUNNY sani-BOT prepped my cereal while I window-shopped for 3D weapons on my hand machine.

President Bigfoot III said something about how hydration must be achieved.

The President’s shaggy arms rested on the burled walnut podium, which reached up to his torso and had a big, round, blue Presidential FRED seal on it.

The Cruel spread today’s headlines: “173 human dead when two commuter tube trains collide head on in East India, 214 humans wounded” “STREAM STARS J-Ro and D-Pet adopt and strangle to death a special-needs Ebola tribesman from Benin, LIVE at 9 pm.” “Category 7 Hurricane forms off the coast of Cape Verde.”

“ … “

A heckler interrupted the President Bigfoot III’s speech.

A hulky, 6’6 tall black man with blond pigtails, wearing a blue frilly Shirley Temple dress, cried out: “Mr. President! I’m a little girl! I identify as a 7 y/o white girl! I’m a little girl! I’m a little girl, motherfucker!”

The crowd gasped, laughed and yelled.

Clapter, others straight applauded, most turned hand machine video/pics, and others stampeded out of their seats.

The girl in pigtails was trampled semi-conscious in the aisles by the mad rush, and a Fucking News journalist punched her in the head, detached the little girl’s hand machine, snatched it and ran away… Ninja suit secret service burst out of the shadows, trapdoors, and pounced on the heckler.

Five of them tackled the little girl and beat her senseless with their fists, feet and nunchaku.

One agent lasered her in the back of her neck. They dragged the girl by her arms and legs…

As they were dragging her away, a couple of the Village sailors spit on, kicked the heckler in the stomach and back. Blood was streaming from the heckler’s mouth, down her pained bloody smile and troubled chin.

A couple ninja suits shielded President Bigfoot III, whisked him and his spirit animal away.

The optic feed from the base was suddenly lost and the screen went totally black. The picture then shifted to the news studio in New Yack...

The Cruel bottom half of the screen enlarged- bold, red lettering: “Breaking: PRESIDENTIAL


One of the two Fucking News BOT angers, the MBOT, Budd BOT, an avuncular, obese lobster with a pleated, dark brown, pin striped suit, bass drawl (and obvious toupee) shouted how this is a disgrace and a travesty.

The other Fucking News anger, Christine BOT, an attractive, brunette- slim waist, leggy, big blank eyes, large breast F-BOT (pan-naked, plastic wrapping suit unit) had a horrified compression, proclaimed infinite shock.

“What would motivate --- to --- as reprehensible as this?” Christine BOT snipped, raged and shook a handgun at the camera.

They concurred the heckler should be executed as soon as possible on The Fucking Execution Channel

STREAM and debated an appropriate method: Chainsaw, Strangulation, Boredom… The Cruel at the bottom of the screen glowed the weather.

“ … “

I whapped to the Fucking Exercise Network, drank a repressant, listened to vint Madonna: “Get into the Groove” and imitated the F-BOT, jiggy motions walking me into low impact aerobics.

I completed my aerobics with a set of yogurt stretches and short freditation.

Into the bathroom, I inserted the disposal hose to my anus, defecated.

My sani-BOT wiped, cleaned, groomed me, and sprayed me over a quick de-bac/g-bac mist shower.

ME: I’m Kim, Kim Cancer, and I am dictating this to my posterity N-APP, for forward/backward time launch to the networks.

(My seeder, if receiving this, you are connected via a neural link. You are receiving this digi-packet via binary infra-transfusion and may disconnect or reconnect with it at any time.)

ABOUT ME: Kim Cancer: I’m a 24-year-old organic male human in a 100% human carrier vessel.

I’m 5'9, 170 pounds, muscular stature, thick legs, jacked quads and pecs. I got short black wavy hair, hazel eyes, super high cheekbones; long, skinny fingers, olive skin, ivory teeth and I’m left-handed.

I've been told I bare a slight resemblance to the vint actor Nicolas Cage.

I live here in Next South Florida and work as a telemarketer, psychic telemarketer, in a Funeral Room.

There are quite a lot of them in this place.

In case you don't know what exactly a Funeral Room is, please allow me to explain.

FUNERAL ROOM: Funeral Rooms are telemarketing operations, psychic, set up in cheap office space consisting of coffin pods, neural links and chains.

Humans, too, of course, to make the calls. Every Funeral Room has humans (usually 95% human, 2% BOT/Cyborg, 3% unknown).

Funeral Rooms incur little overhead and can easily be moved if they get de-platformed, deleted, go out of business, or sent to the cloud.

(They’re referred to as “Funeral Rooms” because most occupy space that was once a funeral home, back when burials were legal. Many were also Walmart.)

What is done in these rooms is primarily soliciting money by cold calling (i.e. calling people who have not asked anyone to call) names off lists, via telepathy, brain to brain, AI neural networks connecting hand machines, phones, brains, bodies.

Most everyone had been chipped, either at birth, or by choice, to preserve/improve Class, employment options, though many lived off neural grid, but those off-grid, out of neural network, were automatically designated Class D – Unemployable).

Awake, daydreaming, asleep, we Funeral Rooms can reach almost anyone.

There are several different types of Funeral Rooms that pitch everything from vacation packages, weapons stocks, body armor, hand machine parts, disposal hoses, F-BOT parts, coupons, you name it.

Many rooms are in the primary business of separating people from their CASH, but there are also rooms that provide services, companionship, and necessary rage.

(Most compassion Funeral Rooms were run by BOT, though, due to consolidation.)

((The emotion SALES rooms, like mine, have been the most profitable in most recent years….))

(((Emotion sales rooms only connect, zap, brain to brain, via neural network.)))

The key to success in emotions sales Funeral Rooms is to make as many psychic connections possible. As many brain zaps as possible. Like, 100, 200, 300, 400, 500 per day.

Sound like a lot?

Why make so many zaps?

Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? WHY?

Because 9 out of 10 people will hang up, curse, froth, and/or not answer their psyche.

Focus, concentration is a chore.

I could make a hundred b-zaps and get cursed out every time. Most people don't like to be cold-brained and aren't shy to express dissatisfaction.

Also, these same lists of names and brain digits circulate among thousands of other Funeral Rooms, so these brains are zapped, called and buzzed a billion times. It's no wonder that these folks react so evocatively.

Most of our customers, those buying services from Funeral Rooms are retired, disabled, or Canadian.

Many of them are lonely and just want someone to talk to. There's always somebody out there who will buy. If there wasn't then there wouldn't be so many Funeral Rooms.

It can be a repetitive, thankless task, being a psychic telemarketer, but you can make CASH at it if you are persistent and have thick skin.

My boss makes over 2 billion Next American Dollars, (BAMABUCKS) a fiscal.

Last fiscal I made 90 million BAMA.

(My rent/utilities being 1 million per motherfucker, I’ve been performing well, but am aiming for 200 million this fiscal.)

(Nowadays, psychic telemarketing is an increasingly lucrative business. because of the Loneliness Index, hand machines, table and eye usables... More and more of my customers aren’t even elderly, disabled, or Canadian…)

The phone room I work for pitches emotion commodity trading. I am an emotion, mostly Rage, Outrage, and [U]rage broker; meaning I can advise and place orders to invest, buy/sell contracts, options, in the emotion and [out]emotion commodities markets.

Mostly we do the emotions markets, sold on the CHITTER EXCHANGE: SPAZDAQ.

I had to take a screaming and weeping exam on the markets and received a Series 8 Fucking Fiduciary Certificate.

Human Being, being an emotion broker, I’m licensed to sell, buy emotions, [out]emotion.

Maybe I’m more of a telemarketing bookie, than a broker, to be honest. Because the emotion commodities markets, for spectators, is much like gambling.

And it’s no peanuts or corncobs, synth liver, or mod-fish spines, no 20K BUCKEROO touch-off lottery scans, either.

We’re talking real BAMA. Often big B. 1M B is our minimum investment to open an account.

MARKETS: The emotion market, CHITTER is ticklish, which is how so many lose in it and, normally, only the hedger-trimmers and sharks make any BUCKEROO …

To sum it up briefly you buy or sell a contract or an option to buy/sell a contract of a particular emotion (Sadness, Rage, Outrage, Annoyance, Anger, Embarrassment, Disgust, Love, Passion, Lust, Pity) which has a fixed expiration date and is traded/tracked through neural network, levels loaded, monitored on


(Boredom was one of the first emotions traded, but, now, Boredom being so prevalent, rampant, easily available, it’s lost its financial worth and is considered by any/every nation to be humanity’s greatest threat.)

Emotions, as opposed to stocks/shares, where every stockholder wins/profits if the stock increases in value, an emotion commodity contract has TWO sides, and will always have a Winner: the alpha-ginner and a Loser: the beta-hoser, making it a "zero sum" type of investment.


Why is there always a beta-hoser?

Because there are two sides to a contract, the rise side (which makes BAMAS if the emotion increases) and the put side (which makes BAMAS if it lessens). You line your BAMAS up on one side or the other and you win or you lose. Simple as that.

You can buy a future or current emotion contract or buy future or current emotion contract options.

An option is an "option" to buy or sell that particular contract. Buying options is a bit less risky than contracts because you are only liable for the value of the option (which is the premium you pay for the option itself) if the emotion moves against you.

However, if you sell an option then you must be ready to provide the actual contract if someone exercises the option. But most options aren't usually exercised. My Funeral Room typically pushes options.

The emotion contracts are riskiest because they can fluctuate very quickly causing big losses or gains in a matter of minutes, sometimes seconds, depending on the intensity of the emotion…

Investors in the emotions are also liable for the full value of the contract they’ve purchased.

It can be hard to liquidate futures contracts or options because orders are taken in line meaning that there might be a couple hundred people ahead of you trying also to offload of that position, and holding the wrong position, investors can lose BAMAS by the second…

(There's a common misconception that if you keep a contract until the expiration date, you'll have an emotion possessing you, like an evil spirit… It doesn't happen like that. Delivery of the contract emotion commodity is rare and only trades at specified clouds, approved by the SPAZDAQ.)

The main players involved in the commodity trade are the sharks, spectators, and hedge-trimmers.

Hedgers are those with a financial interest in a certain emotion commodity and use the markets to hedge (help offset losses, maximize profits).

Sharks are the super-rich, who play the markets, either as part of their business empires or simply for fun.

Spectators are just in it to generate profits. Spectators (and many sharks) are widely hated by hedgers because they often profit from hedger's losses. But without spectators providing trading volume, liquidity the markets wouldn't run as smoothly.

The governmental bodies that oversee the industry are the ETC (Emotions Trade Commission, based in Washington, DC) and their enforcement/police arm the NEA (National Emotions Association, based in Chicago, Illinois).

The ETC liaisons with government, exchanges, publicity and enforces/creates policy. The ETC used to police SPAZDAQ, but in order to increase and decrease bureaucracy, they created the NEA to monitor, paperwork individual firms.

The NEA audits, fines, and takes disciplinary actions against firms/individuals engaging in emotions trading misconduct, such as churning an account (trading too much, simply to generate fees), misrepresenting emotions, filing false claims regarding emotions trades, or insider emotions trading, trading emotions linked to oneself, relative, associate, etc.

The NEA are 100% human and always very clean cut, dress like Mormons, short sleeve, white-collar button-down shirts, black slacks. All are required to lack any emotion whatsoever and must be a certified sociopath.

They pay on-site visits to firms, in groups of 20 or so, make unannounced visits to emotions brokerages and will demand emotions trade records, stand next to a telemarketer and listen in on brain-calls.

The NEA can fine, suspend and revoke licenses of firms or individuals, and file criminal charges.

The ETC can, as well, but rarely does, preferring to devote most of its time/budget on lobbying FRED corporations.

So there it is, my industry and its players…

The BAMAS, thrill of the close. The roar of the Funeral Room when the markets open.

Due to hand machines and automation, no other industry has grown at the rapid clip the emotions market has.

With persistence and patience, it can be lucrative and invigorating, but does wear you down. Headaches migraines, short tenures, and suicides are commonplace.

MORNING: I had to motor, ready for work, but still had time to watch another STREAM. Where did my happy sticks go? There they are… Mango flavor…

I swiped my hand machine and flung The Fucking Music Channel back on and levitated into mid-air, cross-legged, scraped a quick happy stick and shimmied and shook my shoulders to a Black Magic KPOP video.

Chugging my cup of rat shit coffee, I waltzed to my closet, assembled my light, easy-breathing body armor. It’s like a wetsuit, covering my legs, feet, arms, crotch and torso, up to my neck.

There’d been three muckers and two mass shootings in the last couple days. My hand machine’s morbidity app said there’d be a 30% probability of shootings today, 20% of a vehicular ramming attack and a 60% chance of a light stabbing.

I holograph-snapped a light blue button-up shirt, shiny black slacks, striped white/black necktie (Windsor knot, of course!) and crocodile skin wingtips.

Here in the floating partition of Florida (Pompano Beach, Broward County, an hour north of Miami) it’s sticky hot, at 98 degrees per morning, 107 per afternoon, 91 nighttime, so most of the businesspeople here wear the lightest build of effective MADE in N USA! body armor, which was govt subsidized for Class B.

Material clothes atop body armor was generally a thing of the past, worn mostly by Class C, D.

It’s spiffy holographs now, beamed on via hand machine.

But attire has remained the same in modernity, slacks, dress shirt (much of the time still the usual Florida businessman rolled up sleeves) and a tie, dresses, skirts for T, NB, and females.

Those who can afford to, during high mucker tolls, upgrade their body armor or purchase force field, repelling hologram wear (a popular item – boomerang force field that flings back bullets at mucker).

Toilets had long been replaced by disposal hoses, which led to bays where human waste was converted into fuels, synth animal feed (most organic furry/feathered animals were extinct), bug feed.

Bugs, easily grown, harvested, especially cockroaches, were used for everything from food to sanitary items...

Stepping into my automated restroom, walls holographed views of the Italian alps, when they had snow, and I urinated into the disposal hose and hummed.

While doing so, my robotic arm squirted cockroach gel and rubbed it into my hair and combed my dark black hair backwards into vint Gordon Gecko style.

The look suited me. A holograph formed a bathroom mirror. My CHITTER feed liked the handsome.

Sliding out the door, I heard robo-dogs howling and whining down the hall.

I patted myself, made sure I had my happy sticks with me. I did. Mango 100s. All was well. Everything was good. I sipped rat shit coffee from a vacuum cup.

COMMUTE: The elevator tube in my building was again broken so I had to repel via spider rope, from my hand machine, down the building’s exterior.

(The stairwell was filled with alligators, baboons, hyenas, and Hennard’s ghosts [plus rumored to have a grizzly bear] so no one used the stairs, and, if they did, they never reappeared, so most, when the elevator tube wasn’t working, repelled, jumped or flew out the windows).

Being on the 5th floor, it was a bit of a pain to repel, but decent exercise. Every now and again I’ll descend/ascend via rope ladder, parachute or fly.

Sweating like a pig, I marched and skipped out into my building's adjacent, outdoor P-lot (which is too small and has torn up asphalt) and entered/wore the thick, humid morning oven air.

It wasn't too hot, only around the low 90s with the heat index.

I saw one of my neighbors who lives across the hall, Charles. He was changing a flat tire on his old VW Beetle Flyer.

The blondie, he wore a dirty, ragged pale green military uni with a yellow circle smiley face button pinned to it instead of nametag, ranking…

His gut rumbled as he let out a series of farts.

I waved hello to him and he just gave me a strange look, at least I think he was looking at me. I noticed a sniper gun in his passenger’s seat, so I moved quickly.

I got into my auto-car, a black BMW 2--- 7-Series Meth coupe, with J Bone interior.

It had some scratches and dings, the worst being a long, very visible scratch on the driver’s side door.

The car was given to me by chance…

An Arab in white robes stopped, parked the car on the side of the road, near the beach, where I’d just parked my hover-circle.

He asked me: “Hey, Fredo, you like car?”

I told him: “Yes,” and he tossed me the keys, walked into a McDonald’s and detonated a suicide vest.

That was a year ago. His family told me his suicide e-note said someone there had spit in his food and later keyed his car.

His family figured I should keep the car and I did.

Occasionally his ghost would appear and accompany me to work and we’d talk NPL Football or about girls. His name was Salem, but I called him Mustafa.

Inserting my fingerprint into the ignition, I started the engine and scanned my hand machine for music.

Classical Metal, namely Ratt, was on my playlist… “Lay It Down…”

The car was a mess. Its gray J Bone interior had numerous coffee stains, happy stick tingles, and strange markings, like hieroglyphics, that Mustafa refused to explain...

The rest was in decent condition, though, especially the soft, scaly, synth lizard skin seats…

Besides Classical Metal, I like mash Slap music, and would rock to it on my commute, dancing and moving in my car as it navigated gridlock.

Slap got me pumped up and ready to hustle. I’d listen to the air STREAMS, especially Hot Beach 104 FUCK U.

My most favorite song: "Shiggy SHaky" was playing a lot these days. Sometimes Mustafa and I would listen to motivational tapes…

I saw Charles, in his car, loading his sniper rifle, and I scanned my hand and peeled out the parking lot, spinning my wheels, ready to begin my voyage to the office.

The traffic was wretched, as always, lines of ants in a feeder...

As usual there were lots of shitheads cutting me off, shooting handguns and AKs at each other, giving the finger or exchanging kind words.

A deranged McDonald’s employee, chanting: “Huberty, Huberty, Huberty” twirled a dead synth cat by its tail and ran into traffic and raped a hover-cycle’s tailpipe.

What is it about driving in cars that turns otherwise civilized human beings into pre-evolutionary monkeys?

Even with most on autopilot, flyers, road rage actually worsened.

Not great for the commute, but excellent for the emotions trade business….

Like my coworker, long hair blondie, Martin’s sales pitch: “Profit in Rage! Rage! How about every time you see a roadside fistfight or shooting, instead of being scared, or angry you might be late to work, you’re happy, because you’re MAKING BUCKEROO!”

Not that I’m immune. It happens to me too. I flick off somebody or yell. Wave my fist and punch the air. I really hate it when people fly 30 or 40 mph on the highways. I hate that SO FUCKING MUCH. I’m grateful for Mustafa and my hand machine; the freditation music, too. The freditation massively assists my serenity.

COMMERCIAL: And now, a word from our sponsor, the body armor enhancement suit maker,


Hi, I’m Dr. Jordan BOT.

Obviously. You know there’s a mucker, right at this moment, lurking, trolling CHITTER, checking mass murder scorecards, licking his chops trying to find his pronoun to the top of the list… But DID YOU KNOW, that most body armor does NOT repel Russian V-bullets and will NOT protect you from arson, flamethrowers, acid attacks or strangulation, poisoning.

BUT PROTEX will! PROTEX will protect you from any and all attempts on you and your family’s lives with its patented smart shield, boomerang repellent.

The bullets simply bounce away! Even Russian bullets, insidious liquids, powders, flames, you name it!

PROTEX forms a protective, safe space bubble, IMPOSSIBLE to penetrate!

Get fitted for your PROTEX suit today and receive a FAMILY discount of 15% off! What are you


SUIT TODAY!!!!! (Not available for Class D, cyborgs, BOTS, the mentally retarded, nuns, or Russians.)

Dah, dah, DAAAAAAAAAAAAA, this is HOT BEACH 104 FUCK U FM!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!


COMMUTE: The Funeral Room wasn’t too far from my building, maybe 30 minutes or so. I motored

A1A North up an ivory causeway and crossed over to Route 1.

The causeway glides over a beautiful radioactive uranium green canal, retirees and unemployables fishing there; former YAHOO! employees in panda suits, riding in cigarette boats, blasting bazookas off at the sun.

A cult of homeless dentists had a tent next to the causeway, but it burned in the last serious series of intentional fires.

One Chucky Doll Face homeless dentist was naked, his lips compressed into a straight line. We made eye contact and he waved and smiled and was apparently fixing to amputate his leathery bald penis with a dental saw…

I drove by a few robot office buildings, a feed portal selling barbecue rodents, mostly possums, and a Fucking Donuts. Then I curved by the lake.

Occasionally I’d sky-surf on a hoverboard or passenger drone an alternate route to the Room out of sheer boredom or if my car was awaiting download patches.

It took longer, the alternate route, but it was far less congested, and a HOOT to be whipping in circles about the large red, fiery lake. It had the most evocative and melliferous glow. Due to its smoke and fire, around it there’s almost no traffic at all…

(CAUTION: Just make sure not to have a software glitch, fall off the board or out the drone because there were fucktons of Burmese pythons, alligators, and swamp creatures down there.)

((The swamp creatures were a cult of former pharma lobbyists, led by Shkreli cyborgs, Class D, BOTS. They’d tar themselves in mud and shit and show up to your house if you left money or food in your backyard. They lived these days off hunting alligators, synth birds, snakes and cannibalism and were shot on site for fun or by legal decree.))

(((Many cities, States, and towns in Next America, either formally or informally, had culled their homeless populations, through communal mass burning or shooting campaigns, or mass poisonings.

However, Florida, thus far, has allowed them to roam freely, except within or too close of a proximity to

Class A compounds…)

Sometimes I saw synth pelicans and synth flamingos flying over or around the lake.

One time I saw a synth pink flamingo that had gotten run over by a car. It was still half alive and trying to get up and flap its wings. I thought briefly about helping it, but I decided to just keep driving. The thought of wanting to help it made me feel noble.

A swamp creature probably ate it later and ended its misery.

As I approached the Funeral Room, next to Shipman VR High School, at a crowded intersection, I saw an old purple pig man in violet overalls and coke bottle eyeglasses over a red ski mask, riding on flying roller-skates.

He fuck-ended an SUT (with a BASS BOOM stereo playing Slap) driven by two thuggish ruggish BONE Cult youngsters dressed in baggy clothing and blue ski masks.

An argument ensued.

The teens folded the SUT, drugged the old man with syringe dart shots and beat him with oily hot frying pans.

The other cars just drove by, shooting hand machine videos, hollering and a couple honked at them to get out of the road.

” Voodoo doll, motherfucker! Voodoo doll! EAST 9999!” chortled the teens as they beat the man.

I checked my index for random street violence and interlaced my fingers, cracked my knuckles.

Ready, ready, ready to start another day. I crept closer and closer to the Room. I was ready for psychic calls and cracking BUCKEROO.

I thought of one my commanders: Dog Pit Vick. His taunts, fist pumps, fingers and silence. Taupe tweed hologram suits and foaming mouth. The flipping animal.

“Is your girlfriend happy… Why can’t you afford the new… Quit digging in my pocket!”

How he’d be on all fours, barking and running around the Room, yelping and howling, biting the least productive broker that day, but the first to slap a back, lick hands, face…

Quote vint DMX lyrics…

“Y’all gone…”

Caffeine, endorphins, adrenaline. Happy sticks in my front pocket ready. Serotonin from my repressant plucked me up.

I hooked left off Route 1. I scraped another happy stick to balance my keel, scraped the stick down hastily in three or four pulls and flicked it out my driver’s side window.

There was a bit of a breeze going, and it landed in the back seat of a low-flying pick-up convertible I passed. I heard a scream.

The tank floating ahead of me, neon rainbow hummer-clone, with elephant tusk antennas, American flags flying from them and an “I Support the Trumps” bumper sticker…

The tank suddenly swerved off the road and struck a DROP sign, thick chocolate smoke billowed from u-shaped dent in its hood...

The driver, a Tony Montana BOT got out, narrowed his eyes, and started kicking his car. He then looked over at me.

Our eyes met and he yelled: “What the fuck is joo looking at, mang!?” I laughed at him from behind my bulletproof window and accelerated.

WORK: I hovered into the lot of our Funeral Room’s building and occupied in my usual left spot, under a large plastic palm tree, next to Omar’s Porsche-Gunner.

I was glad that nobody had taken my space. Yesterday some asshole's Ford Flying Fuckyoumobile was there. I had Mustafa place a hex on it.

A few of the guys from the office were out front, laughing, palm reading, having a happy stick. I stopped by them for a second, scraped up a stick of my own.

Omar, Stephen, and Martin stood in a semi-circle of cloud bubbles and muttered swear words.

Adam was with them but just went inside.

Omar, was of Afghan eugenics, muscle-bound with military style haircut and a square jaw.

He fidgeted with his tie constantly, was homophobic and misogynistic, but a silver tongue at selling Fear and Hate…

Stephen was a strange bird. About 60, short gray hair and close-cropped beard. A man of few words, he stared at coworkers, making most everyone uncomfortable. He also was addicted to hand machine poker, gambling VR. But when it came to hitting brains, clocking CASH, he was cunning and ruthless.

Especially on the Greed.

Martin was short (5'5), early 20s, had face tattoos, long blond locks and a boyish, high-pitched voice and lisp. A rather disturbing looking fellow, he was basically stupid, low IQ, bad at everything he did, even automated holograph clothing, AI rhythms, but on the brainwaves, he was a master salesman. His specialty: charming the elderly with his dim-witted approach and goofy likeability.

(Believe it or not, Martin said he used to work as a mime performing on the street before going into the psyches.)

All were on hand machines, competing at an e-GAME of distinguishing human female asses from FBOT asses, then liking/disliking the asses, and chatting back and forth, shitting on each other, via texts, emojis, laughs and scans…

I chucked my stick, went inside, ready to bang brains, crash BAMAS…

The company that employed my services: "Liberty Emotional Investing Corp" had a Funeral Room on the right quadrant of what was once a Walmart.

The Walmart had been the sight of three mass shootings, a stabbing, and it finally closed due to automation and was partitioned into office space...

Our Funeral Room occupied where the dairy section once was.

It seemed cool in the room, icy, cooler than the air conditioning. Mustafa said there were at least two ghosts, mass shooting victims, Akyra and Jason, in there…

There was a robo-doctor’s office and a staycation sales type of company next door...

The building was still Walmart blue, boxy; its windows tinted black.

I face rec’d, and automatic doors slid open, MUZAK, Christmas melodies playing; they hummed year-round.

The AC was cranked and temperature chilly, 62 F. The plastic Walmart, China factory smell remained.

The moving floor led me to the door of the Funeral Room.

On the door was a huge, rectangular sign that read: "Liberty Emotional Investing Corp" in kablam black, Times New Roman font.

The company name was underlined atop a picture of a smiling Statue of Liberty holding up a rainbow American flag.

Facial recognition sucked me into the Funeral Room, and I followed the floor to my coffin pod.

Our room was a beehive network of wireless coffin pods, equipped with chips, antennas, each coffin pod chained to the floor, in case of accidental levitation pull.

The coffins, real coffins, repurposed, once belonged to the rich…

(With overpopulation and environmental calamities, cemeteries were either washed away by flood, destroyed by earthquake, wildfire, gamma ray, various other catastrophe, or simply torn up to make way for real estate; corpses, skeletons dug up, and, depending on status, used in research, construction, or the creation of BOTS.)

Most Funeral Rooms, the successful ones, that is, constructed their cubicle farms, networks from coffins of the rich, believing the millionaire, billionaire coffin shells would increase wavelength prosperity karma.

Entering the coffin pod, telemarketers would either sit up in it or lie on their backs, sliding open or closing the lid via hand machine control.

Inside each padded telemarketers’ coffin was e-pictures of his/her loved/hated/stalked ones, market charts, inspirational quotes, VR screen shots of exotic locales, e-pics, e-posters of e-SPORT


Many telemarketers, like our floor chief Schrank, slapped up e-pictures of dead children in his coffin pod.

Imagery of humans in revealing attire had long been frowned upon or outright banned in most workplaces decades ago.

Between every 5 or so coffins was a sloth table telemarketers could use to eat, talk, break.

Under the sloth table, a cabinet with spare equipment, suction head parts, digi-sticks.

The Funeral Room was sterile white. White everything, white walls, white tables, cabinets, doors, dividers, blinds.

Only the coffins were different colors, but most were white, brown, and black.

The room was amazingly spotless, clean, bacteria free, stainless, maintained meticulously clean via robot maid BOT and roving BOT vacuums.

The walls had flashboards that sifted and pixeled between pictures of extinct animals, FBOTS, dead children, video from primitive abortion procedures, market charts, Fucking News updates, reality STREAM, e-SPORTS, baseball highlights, footage from fires, natural disasters, poet hunting, comedian culling, random/intentional stabbings, shootings, street violence and real estate porn.

A coffee BOT/snack drone hovered around, delivering liquid and solid refreshment to agents, delivering directly to coffin pods.

Face scanning open my coffin pod, I sat into it and finished up my vacuum cup of rat shit coffee and nodded hello to my neighboring telemarketer, Jennifer.

It's rare to find a girl in this line of telemarketing, but there is a brave few.

In fact, with automation it’s been rarer to find a human woman working anywhere. Most workplaces employ FBOTS.

Jennifer was a lovely, midwestern nice girl, slightly shy; extremely attractive.

Not in a supermodel, STREAM star or perfection FBOT, but more a girl next door, 20th, 21st century, down to earth way.

She and her boyfriend had moved down to Next Florida from East Ohio and she took this job thinking she'd make primo BUCKEROO.

She really needed to make some BAMAS. She said she's broke, and her boyfriend, who she lives with, had screen records, CHITTER feuds, CHITTER quotes that made him an Unemployable.

Not seeing many female humans, I appreciated Jennifer, her organic femininity, soft syllables and nuclear smile.

She looked particularly pretty today, with her milky, Geisha white, silky skin, and her shoulder-length curly light brown hair twisted into pigtails...

About 5'2, she had lovely navy blue, almond eyes, and a pert little slim body, with pear shaped breasts, and a firm not too big or small ass that really looked spectacular in that short skirt.

Her baby blue blouse matched her eyes and her heavy blue eyeshadow...

Really liked her abundance of make-up, every day a different lipstick color, and her girly painted nails… And don’t even get me started on her fishnet stockings!

There was an underlying sexual tension between us.

We were quite flirty and super-friendly with one another since we trained together for the Screaming Exam and started working at Liberty around the same time.

"Good morning," I said.

"Good morning," she said and smiled at me as I lay down in my coffin pod. She was sitting upright in hers.

I asked her how it went yesterday with this account she's been trying to close for a week now. She told me how the Abu never answers his brain and that she's getting sick of calling him.

She handed me a stack of digi-sticks, hot pink colored, meaning they identified as female.

Jennifer hated calling women because they always cursed, downvoted, slapped hexes on her.

"I hate women," she said.

"I like women," I replied and smiled at her.

She smiled back coyly and quickly looked away, melting into a mellow glow…

I didn't mind calling women because they were usually more polite.

Many were lonely housewives, unemployables, and happy to talk to anyone. I’d made BAMAS from them plenty of times and operated contrary to the common mantra in Funeral Rooms: "Don't pitch the bitch!" because most women, in general, will quickly terminate transmissions or constantly pester about their emotions account if they do open one.

"All right, everybody! Bring it in, bring it in!" snapped Schrank, who popped out of his coffin pod with a heavy swagger.

Schrank was pumped up today, I could tell. A clear liquid leaked from his faceless head. I suspected he’d been injecting asteroid juice again.

A real "RA RA" type of guy; he commanded the room like a sports team.

He'd e-path text at people (even while they were on brains, trying to pitch client bastards)

((Clients, customers of Liberty were often referred to by us, un/affectionately as “bastards”))

Schrank was always stalking the floor, trembling, spitting as he spoke, leaning into brokers’ coffin pods:

"C'mon, Wendigo! Give me something today!" "You can do it!" “That's what I'm talking about!"

He loved giving chest bumps, slapping asses, and punching walls, either in anger or elation...

At the beginning of every workday he always gave a speech to get everybody psyched up to hit brains.

Today was no exception, and he wiped his mouth with his arm and gathered the troops…

"All right, everybody, listen up, we got out 29,023 front loads yesterday.”

(Front loads are a digi-file, filled out with information re: price points, profit potential, market history of an emotion.)

((“Front Loading” was sending these front loads to prospective bastards in the hopes they will buy into that emotion contract, scan BAMAS, open an account.))

(((It was obviously better they immediately buy an emotion, but front loads, especially if re-sheeted or shared, did lead to sales…)))

“Opened 260 new accounts in Outrage, 174 in Embarrassment, 21 in Pity, and, what the.. is this right…

2054 in Surprise!? Sammy the Bull, that you?”

“Function correct. The kindergarten fire in Jinan, East China, intentionally set by hacked FBOT.”

Hologram footage lit the ceiling, displaying the carnage, children, FBOTS, burning alive, around 100 of them, due to a malfunctioning face scanning entrance/out-door..

Sammy the Bull continued: “Footage leaked, viral to the left network.” “BAMABUCKS!!!!!” He got up and screamed at the top of his lungs, voice straining.

The entire room applauded.

Schrank: “You see, this is it! This is what I’m talking about! Be a KILLER! Scan EVERY network, hit every list, every eye, brain. Scan, scan, scan, scan more. Punch, push, prod. Kick and bite!

“You claw, you hustle, you teleport yourself and tickle souls!

“You are an animal! A savage!”

Holograms spit from Schrank’s ears, images of animal attacks, crocodiles eating tribesmen in the tropics, piles of bodies from wartime atrocities, furry kittens being stomped to death by giant robot cats, train wrecks, fire-breathing flying dinosaurs pillaging Asiatic cities, burning skyscrapers, people jumping from upper storeys of flaming glass towers, plummeting, flailing jumpers, a sadistically smiling elderly Italian man in a Versace jumpsuit, sitting in a golden jet-propelled wheelchair, throwing live whimpering synth puppies into the frozen Niagara Falls, and, finally, a calm, white sandy beach, turquoise waters lapping the shoreline, BAMABUCKS from clear blue sky, drizzling like rain, soft Christmas music, Holy Night… Schrank struck a Jesus Christ pose, outstretched his arms, stood silently as the images whipped about.

Then he clapped the room into operation and screamed out: “YAAAAAAAAA!!!!!!!” Every agent jumped to their feet, out of their coffin pod, and screamed back:


The clock hit 9 Anti-M. The wall screen moved to the CHITTER SPAZDAQ feed and feed of a LIVE terrorist attack…

(Rogue, insurgent Pakistani robo-bat boats, armed with catapults, hurling suicide midgets covered in flaming synthetic cowshit at Hindi human fem farms in North East India) had the VIX and Fear options moving green...

The t-t-trading day had begun!

And then, just like that, every agent manned his/her coffin pod, attached their headsets- a suction-cup with a thin pointy antenna (allowing for quicker, wider neural range) to their foreheads and started zap-dialing, calling out to brains, shaking, accessing hand machines, scanning digi-files…

The room roared, alive with the sound of popping, chatter, and hand machine shuffling.

(Sometimes it got SO boisterously loud which made it necessary to slide shut the coffin pod, enable sound sealing…)

Because of the terrorist attack and spreading bushfires in Z-Stralia, the market was moving fast, and the

Funeral Room was abuzz, pitches for Grief, pitches for Rage, but mostly pitches, at least Stateside, for


"Hello this is --- from Liberty…!" "May I speak with…" "Hello…"

Jennifer just got hung up on five times in a row. Her expression soured.

Dark Web Cunthulu, my other neighbor, snorted napalm powder from his talon and offered me a bump. I politely passed, as did Jennifer.

I scanned my digi-stick lead sheets (sheets with names/neural numbers of prospective bastards) and started to zap.

The first brainwave of my first file was a Mr. A. Burke, of Rochester, New York, last known physical address in North Miami Beach…

Additional Personal Data: Retired, 87, Jamaican, has model FBOT 926, violent, has seven children, unmarried, watches gameshows, hate-watches stand-up comedy.

Florida retired people. Probably the best people to call. Inside all the time due to the sun and heat, muckers.

Retirees enjoyed us calling. Several of my clients were retirees.

My suction cup headset buzzed the digits and Mr. Burke’s brain rang.

Boooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooorp… Boooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooorp… "How about it, mon?" answered an old sounding gentleman, in a Rasta accent.

I went into my pitch that I had memorized by now.

"Hello, this is Kim Cancer from Liberty Emotional Investing. I hope you're doing well today, because, as you know, many others are well, and many others are not.... It has come to my attention that from time to time you like to make high return investments in emotions… Particularly that of Hatred, especially towards stand-up comedy…

Are you currently doing any Hatred/Rage investing right now, and, if so, where are your BAMAS working for you?"

"Stand-up comedy?" asked Mr. Burke.

“Yes, sir… I notice, from data…”

“Fucking stand-up comedians, mon… I hate EVERYTHING about them. Bumboclaat! Their smug expressions, taunting the audience, the set-up, punchlines, their pausing for applause…” I could hear what sounded like a gun being loaded.

“Sir, how would you like to invest in options that could…”

“You’re not UNDERSTANDING. I’m going to shoot a stand-up comedian if he EVER steps foot on my property… FIND A PLANE FULL OF THEM!”

“No, sir, this is about investing, making BUCKEROO. Turning your plane of thought into BAMA burners, earners… Harnessing and capitalizing…” And with that, the connection ended.


The sound of white noise.

I was standing in my coffin pod, clutching a tennis ball in my hand. Most high-earner telemarketers stand.

A chain gang telemarketer, Gotti, told me once you think better on your feet. He was not wrong.

Mr. Burke was a dud. Perhaps he had dementia.

Maybe he was a true psycho, preparing a rampage; perhaps he was an unemployable and the data was faulty. Or maybe he’d been tormenting me.

Heaven’s Gate, The Cult of Tiggers, those who like to torment telemarketers, fuck with us constantly and upload recordings to cold webs and dark sites, video and audio download channels.

Tiggers banked BUCKEROO selling ads, ramping humongous audiences eager to hear a telemarketer cry or yell. Bets in casinos on live STREAM would be placed.

Tiggers would tell you their house is on fire, pretend to be premium tier police or act like they know you: "Kanye, is that you, playing jokes again?"

Lots of freaks, these brains…

There were plain strange people out there as well. The other day I received a brainmail. We usually just disconnect on brainmail unless it's a client you already have or a promising front load.

But this brainmail was a LAUGH RIOT!

It was an Indo-Pacific man, Mr. Godse, breathing hard, cursing in Hindi, and moaning, grunting, gargling, making horse sounds…

It was so damn uproarious that I played it to Jennifer, and she almost fell out of her coffin pod, laughing and crying so hard…

A lot of brain signals we connect are obsolete, unable to compute, too old to understand what's going on.

They haven’t been reassigned, reconfigured, or uploaded to the cemetery cloud yet.

One lady I reached just yelled "What?", “Who?" the whole time until I ended transmission. Another believed me to be her long-lost friend, “Tay” and wept uncontrollably. I offered her cloud services. Then booked spot options on Confusion.

There was an older broker, in a coffin pod near me, Babi Yar.

Babi Yar was a fucking maniac, but in an endearing way.

He'd been doing this for years, since forever.

He'd sold everything from cars, commodities, stocks, kangaroo meat.

Babi Yar was overweight, gave no fucks and never downloaded AI aesthetic wares for his figure, his receding hairline or fang teeth.

We got along well, both being of Italian descent.

I admired his pencil thin moustache; few could rock it with such panache.

His eyes were perpetually bloodshot, so I’m guessing he didn’t do cryogenics or regenerate and always appeared to be under the influence of various mood enhancers.

His thick Italian New York accent reminded me of my uncle, which is part of why I liked him. Today he donned a cheetah suit with a shark tooth tie.

He could have holographed a better image, sure, but, really, no fucks were given.

If he didn’t kill the BAMAS, perhaps the bosses would sharp on him, as was the tendency toward those in full blown animal suits or sloth attire.

But they never banged much on high earners, which Babi Yar was.

Making the BAMAS he did, perhaps he’d be happy, but no, every day, EVERY DAY, he arrived to the Funeral Room and manned his coffin pod in the foulest, rudest of moods, especially if he’d been fighting with his wife. (Unlike many of the other telemarketers, he preferred organic human females…)

Panning over to him, I text swiped a hello, and he swipe-replied: "Everything sucks!"

Crazy Kehoe confided in me that Babi Yar had a serious tickling fetish, peeling with strictly enhanced, endangered or extinct ostrich feathers, the priciest, the Bugatti of ostrich feathers.

Babi Yar as well had issues with swipe machine betting on prospective death tolls of Bus Massacre VR

STREAM e-SPORT SIMS- Bus Passenger Massacre IV, Khudda and Bus Passenger Massacre V, Fatehbad, his favorites...

Babi Yar had banked BAMAS (billions of BAMAS) and should probably be able to retire by now.

However, Crazy Kehoe said his tickling fetish, betting swipes forced him into still working.

One thing about Babi Yar, though, he was an honest guy. His wife knew ALL about the tickling and swiping, which isn’t even why they fought.

Babi Yar also always informed, explained in digits, the risk in emotions, the market’s fluctuations. Never lied. The Truth was always the Truth to him.

Babi Yar slicked me as I was about to make my next transmission and said: "You're doing it all wrong.

Telemarketers are made, not born…

You need to stick to the script. Stick to the script. What I always do when I hit the brain is I just ask for the person by their first name.

I don't care if a dog answers the phone. I say: 'Hello, Ningyang, Ningyang?' Then I go straight into the script. I don't even stop. If they try to stop me, I just keep on going until they bzzz me. And if they stay on, I just continue with it.

If they ask me if I'm reading from a script, I tell them: 'Yup, how does it sound?' and they laugh, and I keep going.

That's the way you do it. You just bulldoze right over them. You always got to control the transmission. The second you lose control, you're done, finished, forked. Make sure you got the data. The data. Liars can figure but figures can’t lie. Data. BAMAS. Cold Call Cowboy, my friend. Cold Call Cowboy…”

SSSSSMACKER: The NEA had many protocols regarding data, customer/client occupational circumstances.

The DRT, PPE, C5S, among other regs that were cupped into your flow during the training transitioning. There were times when sticks were moved, blurred lines, this or that account opened, when the BAMAS weren’t right.

T-Agent impulse overrode protocol.

NEA insufficient accounts were discouraged, at times punished harshly.

Why bother to open insufficient accounts? Insider Anger, Greed, Disappointment, Hate- that occurred.

Certain retirees, unemployables, degenerates, those who shouldn’t have options, do.

But in this job, working on “slammer” or “smacker” (Slammer: BUCKS paid only if sale completed, scaled as a percentage, typically 15% market value of the emotion option/contract) so telemarketers will be desperate.

Freedom Dividends, public government food sticks, nutrient pills and containment units don’t a happy life make.

FBOTS are not subsidized in Florida, either. Organic mating or dating isn’t cheap.

Telemarketers survive. Telemarketers, the A-List, the famous, they thrive. Bank BUCKS from STREAMS, sales, sponsors. But most telemarketers don’t. Most survive.

The first month at Liberty, like most Funeral Rooms, telemarketers only lick “Dibs”, an allotment of BUCKS disbursed, and it counts against a future smacker. So, if say Dibs are B1,000,000, that B1M the company scrapes from the first pay scan, whenever that is.

Not an easy business, seeders. But it beats harvesting metals, farming cockroaches, and for those who can’t sing or dance or play e-SPORT or code/program, and don’t want to scrape by on Freedom

Dividends, it’s one of the most human occupations left.

WORK: Monkey mind, cobalt blue, sliver of magenta, and so I reboot and recalibrate: Back to the waves.

I rubbed my temples, summoned more and more signals.

Saw telemarketer stat STAR Nicki Sixx Cruz’s face on hologram, dressed as a 1920s brown shit fascist, full regalia, saluting a skydiving hemophiliac Jenner; the hemophiliac Jenner clawing at a faulty parachute, plummeting into a football field of rose bushes.

Most of my leads weren't answering. I received disconnected number mental error messages.

It was morning time.

Time for news, coffee, and the rallies. Many bastards at the rallies, these days, gallivanting in slews…

RALLIES: The rallies had picked up in popularity, owing to the fact that many were without work, living on Freedoms, U/unemployable or just bored.

The Peoples Temple had started the trend, and, with CHITTER, it went viral.

Rallies in every city, town, neighborhood. They’d be mass screaming rallies, mass crying rallies, or, most recently, mass laughing rallies.

Rallies for the next rally. Rallies about rallies.

Every rally was basically the same. An arena or theater, full or half full or a quarter full, hosted by Jones BOT, depending on the cycles.

Fast-moving images and sounds played on a jumbotron screen or streamed directly to audience hand machines (though most would fold arms, hold hands, watch the jumbotron, for camaraderie) and the audience, in unison, screamed, hated, cried, laughed together for 10 to 20 minutes and left vindicated, hugging, fighting, kissing, stabbing or shooting.

(Even before the national legalization of murder, Florida Stand Down Laws and Population Control Act

6278 made stabbing and shooting a subjective offense, allowable at nebulous opportunity.)

Such rallies were a blessing and a curse for telemarketers. Rarely planned, they erupted sporadically, FLASH MOB, with little advance notification of location or version (Hate, Laughter) but if a telemarketer had or found a bastard at one or discovered one in time, sold fat enough, SNAP EPO, it was a goldmine!


Language barrier breaker ware algorithmic fail. Language barrier breaker ware algorithmic fail… Disconnect. EEEEERRRRRRPPPPPPPPP….

Black cat, broken mirror morning, all no-answers, disconnects, attempts, hang ups.

An enraged Boy Scout leader, Mr. Hamilton, I binged a few minutes ago, taught me ingenious new uses of Glaswegian profanity, cursing me out because he was dishing for an important thought, and I was tying up his line.

I hadn’t sold or gotten any front loads out. Not one.

I could hear Jammiyathul, the Sri Lankan, Jungle Jammy, his vowels rising above the roaring vocal fray.

He himself had coined the nickname, having grown up in the jungle of what was left of the island state…

JJ was yelling through the phone congested background: "Everything we talked about in the markets last week is happening, everything's happening! Let us be in today, men, and make some trades. You know this water war isn't going to stop.

Do you think water prices will be falling anytime soon? What about Sudan? What about the churches?

The water cunt terrorists? The LDD?

One new water cunt terror attack and it is B70,000 a bottle. How many waterfalls are left, men? How many glaciers? Ice caps? How thirsty, men, how thirsty are you now? We must get in now before it's too late! You will be happy next time there’s a terrorist attack! Trust me!"

I knew that last remark could be socialized, so I placed two options on Mock Outrage… BREAK: Usually I had a rest once or so per hour, slipped out for a happy stick.

Outside, in the shade of synth plastic, I saw Dylan and Eric, on their hand machines. Joining them, I swiped on my hand machine and scraped a happy stick.

Dylan was watching dark web stand-up comedy on his hand machine; he gleamed in the sun, grinned and buzzed me a link.

I clicked on it and caught the comedian, mod-gen, pants locked at ankles, shooting fireballs from his ass.

(The informal ban on stand-up comedy had lasted two years. In this time, at least 700 human comedians were slaughtered, mostly by beheading; Chapman BOTS led the charge on The Fucking Execution Channel STREAM, hunting, via BOTCAM/drone, stalking stand-up comedians, impaling on them spikes, defiling, decapitating them; flying BUZZSAW the preferred, most popular, crowd-pleasing method of executing the comedians...)

((Contemporary stand-up comedy available only on the dark web or pirated digi-stick, produced in undisclosed locations. Vint stand-up still widely available on STREAM))

Eric was browsing FBOT upgrades, vint German delivery packets, and soft patches.

Dylan shared three videos, but they were too long (nearly violating TL;DR informal laws, TL;DR regs stating no MOVIE over 3 minutes; BOOKS, no more than 100 words; NEWS not over 1:30 minute/seconds; ENTERTAINMENT VID 2:30 minutes/seconds; LIVE STREAM feed exempt).

Bored, I slicked to The Fucking Torture Channel feed.

Unemployables hanging by one leg, foot hammer nailed to an inverted crucifix ceiling.

Unemployables had a silver feeding tube plunged into their throats, fed a soup from a cauldron of comedian blood/shit/piss, synth sugar and divorce lawyer vomit, all in the hope of viewers scanning them


Enjoyable, sure, but my current favorite The Fucking Torture Channel feed had to be the “ROPE”.

One where a BUCK hungry contestant, by law, a morbidly obese man/women, Class B/C, must run and fly bungee jumping off tall office buildings.

Before jumping, they’d have to calculate rope measurements through a series of trivia questions.

Those who survived went on to be upgraded to Class A, VR school teachers, or STREAM STARS…

Crazy Kehoe fling-texted he’d seen on CHITTER that there’d be a mass poet beheading from San Francisco later and sent me the link.

I swiped the X and somersaulted inside, to the unisex bathroom.

Inside the bathroom there was a shaky lizard, fleshy features, tall, a turbo iguana, wearing mirror sunglasses, happy stick dangling…

S/he’d been hired as the disposal, refreshment assistant and wasn’t sure if s/he was a lizard person, mod-animal or ABOT (neither was I).

The shaky lizard smiled and offered a survey screen. I swiped left, in retaliation, and kicked open a stall door.

I could hear some voices coming from the adjacent box. It was Elisabeth Battery and Joey Ransacker.

I wondered if maybe they were closet human-sexuals. But then I heard sotto voices/snorting, probably vac snappy dust or whopper dings, and figured they’re just prowlers, delivering a load of death.

Unsheathing the disposal hose, it slipped from my hand, and my penis broke loose, urine hit the floor.

I don’t know why, but it was satisfying, pissing on the floor, pissing on a thing, instead of into a thing.

Yellow piss spilled into the adjacent box, and I heard Elisabeth and Joey curse, tear out of there. I maintained my flow until my bladder emptied.

After I was done, I opened the box and the shaky lizard was on the floor, frolicking, lapping up the urine with forked tongue... In mere seconds the floor was dry and spotless.

I fuck-linked to the network and five starred the reptile.

WORK: Back to the Funeral Room, my coffin pod.

All no and disconnects. Truly a broken mirror, dismal day.

"I'm not interested" "Please take my name off your loads" "Where did you get my neurons?" "Please stop connecting" "You've reached a brain link that has been disconnected or is no longer in service"

Brains sucked. Thankfully, it was about lunch time. I swiped up to my co-worker Woo Bum, and he agreed to walk or drone the sustenance shack for a pill or mod-meat sandwich. ” … “

I liked Woo Bum. We both enjoyed “Rope” and had similar taste in FBOT models, VR.

Woo Bum was sort of a friend of mine. Well, a 'work' friend, really. The type of people I only talk to or hang out with within the confines of work.

Woo Bum and I often had lunch together, and we’d casually trade hostile memes, Triumph the Insult Dog quotes, CHITTER feuds, and random insults with/to one another.

We'd been in training together, after all...

(TRAINING: The Liberty training for new brokers, a week-long, 8 hour a day crash course, held in the dungeon of the Walmart building.

The dungeon a dank, wet floor, gray concrete walled circular classroom, with digital chair/desks that administered random electronic torture shocks, and the classroom’s walls plastered in e-photos of murdered 20th , 21st century dictators: Qadhafi’s corpse, Saddam, Mussolini hanging…

A flickering fluorescent light dangling from the ceiling turned on/off randomly…

We got a stack of loose-leaf papers about emotions, and the markets, kill sheets, e-pictures of significant massacres, psyops, exotic flowers.

The instructor, Herr Schmidt, was a former agent who now ran a Jesuit containment complex nearby.

He’d detonate emotions, prices, market fluctuations, punch walls, and beam video of animal torture, mass murder and various forms of abuse, plus cheerleading competitions, coral reef dildos, and deadlines.

At the end of the course, we knew all emotions, prices, option regs, inside and out, plus how to front load, upsell, downsell.)

WOO BUM: I reviewed, rated him highly, but he wasn’t really the type I usually friended.

Beside “Rope” and FBOT, we didn’t have much in common. Work certainly brought disparate unions...

Rare for an Asiatic, Woo Bum was a redneck, with a strong Panhandle accent, but used coding to standardize his English for business.

He liked MASSACAR, had a mullet, a scraggly goatee, wore overalls on casual Fridays, and went python hunting.

A heavy earner, hard worker, Woo Bum could wear what he wanted and did. His holographs changed daily; flashy tacky neon blue suits, emperor robes, even bathrobes for a few minutes here and there before a commander’s glare hovered him formal...

LUNCH: We sat outside the pixelated store, in adjacent cushion claws, palm reading as we ate synth mod BBQ turkey sandwiches and grasshopper chips.

Woo Bum forwarded me to a CHITTER feud flame war and flash memes about the water crisis.

We shared a laugh.

Woo Bum swigged from his cherry corn cola. Then burped the alphabet.

I was horrified and wondered if he’d booked options on Revulsion.

Starting my way back, Woo Bum said he’d be back later or never.

Turning away, I heard gunshots from a one-eyed mucker, fatty horseface mid-male, imperial Japan headband and vint USA Olympic Women’s Basketball jersey.

The mucker, naked below the waist, was shooting a Bushmaster XM-15 ORC 300 BLACKOUT at random flying drones and cars, roller-skaters, singing: “My Heart WILL GO ON!” Woo Bum hand machined an electric bolt and dropped the mucker.

A crowd formed around the mucker, kicking, punching and robbing him of his weapons, ammo, fanny pack, body armor and moccasins.

A death van, public police BOTS rolled in and repossessed the mucker’s internal organs...

My hand machine pogo-sticked me back to the Funeral Room.

On the way, I saw a shiny building, about 11 stories high, encased in clear bluish glass, tinted dark.

It was on fire. An HIV Cosplay Cult circle-danced around it.

The building, cubist, cube shaped in a nihilistic design.

Opposite of it sat a translucent, BOT-made triangle lake, with mechanical ducks and piranha fish. There was a heart-shaped beautiful-hydrogen fountain out in front of the building, shooting neon green liquid, HFRV element, its lattice of spouts crisscrossing.

Outside the burning building stood a couple agents from Liberty.

They were talking to a bipedal hippopotamus. The Hippo was wearing an expensive dark brown pinstripe Armani suit, chains of gold, and had human-licked salt and pepper hair.

The Hippo was Liberty’s boss of bosses. Commander and owner.

His name, Ted Bundy. AKA Taliban Ted because he was fucking relentless and a zealot when it came to pushing emotions, crashing the BAMABUCKS.

TALIBAN TED: Taliban Ted founded the Funeral Room a couple years ago.

He started at a rodent investment company in downtown Miami and was asked by the firm to leave after some of his clients filed ass-action complaints.

The REC (Rodents Exchange Commission, the governmental watchdog of the Rodent Securities Market) wanted to bust Taliban Ted for a rat/rabbit mating manipulation scheme that cost investors a bundle of


(Rabbit, rat, possum, squirrel, due to their quick/easy breeding, coffee making, meat producing, adaptabilities, capabilities, like cockroaches, were a staple of food/beverage consumption and cog in world economies.)

((A secondary market for marsupials such as kangaroo meat, coffee existed, prospered.))

(((Luxury, specialty markets primarily in elephant meat, bone, fecal processing for coffee)))

Taliban Ted had too much heat in the Rodent game and decided to go into Emotions. With earnings and capital he’d amassed, he began Liberty.

All was going swimmingly, until late last year Taliban Ted and a couple brokers from Liberty landed in hot water with the NEA.

Some customers complained about how their Emotions were treated.

But Taliban Ted reckoned it was more due to his STREAM and that the accounts in question fared poorly due to the Presidential Popularity Contest that was met with more Apathy than forecast.

The matter went before the NEA hearing committee, and the NEA suspended Taliban Ted's emotions license for 3 years and fined him B1,000,000,000. The other brokers were fined and suspended (one spanked via wet hot towel, live on Fucking Punishment STREAM).

TT swapped the company into his wife's name (his wife is a swipe-a-holic slapper who runs an FBOT beauty salon, parts shop).

He changed the name of the firm from "Liberty Trading" to "Liberty Emotional Investing” and opened a water options Funeral Room just across the street from Liberty.

Despite Taliban’s record, he was able to open a water options brokerage because the regulatory environment was different. It was run by cyborgs and electronic ghosts, no formal regulatory body, aside from a small division of FRED.

(Our Funeral Room also pimped water options here/there.)

Taliban picked his water brokerage’s location so he could run Liberty by proxy, sever.

Apes from Liberty would hover up there during the day for chats with him. Even with telepathy and facetimes, many still preferred non-digital eye contact. TT was one of them.

Taliban hovered by the Funeral Room, off-hours, for pep talks, riling us up, or rattling off on an inferior.

He carried a bullwhip and sack of sweet pussy sucker pops.

His speeches were full of curse words, inspirational quotes and head-slapping, both of himself and others, both in love and in anger.

TT (whose voice was a lisp) was talking to Walter about Walter’s new flamer spear.

Walter had fashioned the flamer spear himself, DIY, from a broomstick and vint BUM GUN, filled with insecticide, hairspray, and paint thinner.

“The doctor is the worst killer of the poor; his pluralistic chaos, vigilante justice…” Walter seethed, clutching at the flamer spear.

Taliban scoffed and hugged at his brand spanking new FUCKING Jetpack.

"Oh yeah, this thing is a friggin' beauty, throttle and vortex."

"Barrel size, solid black, crispy. Has infrared, laser-tuning, mucker detection and deflection..." "Hey Kim!" he yelled out to me and swiped me.

"Big Ted! TALIBAN!”

I walked over to him, shook his hand. His handshake was firm, palm clammy, his hands the size of a catcher’s mitt.

"What's with that account you just opened, that bastard in Ding, Delaware?" he asked.

Me: "Yeah, good bastard, bought ten positions on Sadness. He likes Dismay too and wants to do a spread

on it."

Taliban’s eyes reddened. His lips pursed.

"Load him to buy some positions on Jealousy, at least five. Calls or puts, doesn’t matter, just load him up. We need some more trades. This month is Martian. With the Wife STEAM STREAM, Jealousy will be through the roof. We need in on the action...”

(Human wives, all named Laci either/or Aileen, ranking high in Misery, Boredom and Insecurity, though owning excellent aesthetic wares, gears, PS, had been chosen by the Congressional Entertainment Committee; their eye cameras cracked, a team of MBOT horse dick square jaw studs sent in various capacities to seduce.)

((Their husbands, E605, were to be randomly beamed CUCK senses, sensory shots of camera, blasting images of their wives flirting, their drooling clamshells, their ass-smacking pummel-fucks. It was set to be a highly-rated STREAM and viral on CHITTER; bets, contracts, investments drawn on retaliatory measures; Jealousy, Anger, Murderous Rage sure to be hot options.))

“Jealousy. We need in on Jealousy. Murderous Rage speculation is already trading at all-time highs. There’s word that it could be anyone’s human wife chosen. And, of course, everyone involved is Class B or lower.”

“Every episode is sure to have one murder or physical, verbal assault. ECNN Jealousy is going to be IN-THE-MONEY soon. We gotta buy while it’s OUT-OF-THE-MONEY.”

[MARKETS: Rarely profitable options called "OUT-OF-THE-MONEY" options. They were called "OUT" because they were far from the strike price (price you wanted the option to move towards for profit). You could buy several out-of-the-money options for very little money each because they were rarely (though sometimes) profitable and almost worthless.]

[[ECNN Jealousy had long been OUT because of the prevalence of Apathy. Atheism, and Automation.]]

[[[“IN-THE-MONEY” or "AT-THE-MONEY” options, like Apathy, Anger, were more expensive

because their profitability likelihood was greater.]]]]

[[[[What many Funeral Rooms did was buy stacks of OUT options because they were cheaper, and, when sold to the bastard, on each option they sell they charge a smacker.]]]]

[[[[[Therefore, it was more profitable for brokerages to sell a bunch of OUT options and charge a smacker on every single one than it would be for them to sell one or two IN options. The IN options may be more likely to make the bastard a profit but not make the broker as many smackers.

However, the practice varied from room to room, broker to broker, but those who worked solely on smackers, and received no salary, often did push worthless emotions.]]]]]

[[[[[[Unfortunately, many bastards didn’t research the markets or specs of the emotion option they bought. NEA had long-banned brokers from adding bastards’ Social Nets due to many brokers counter-profiting off Rage futures.]]]]]]

[[[[[[[This is why so many bastards lost money. They’d be fast-talked into buying an emotion they didn’t understand or was worthless, and they didn’t have the attention span to research it. Funeral Rooms needed new bastards and trades because they really burned through bastards, had many bastards launch shooting attacks, ax attacks, bombings, head-slap, dick kick, cunt punt, vomit hose rampages on brokerages… Most Funeral Rooms, including ours, had bulletproof, explosion proof glass windows, construction, facial recognition entry.]]]]]]]

[[[[[[[[Liberty, like most Funeral Rooms, was neither shady, nor completely ethical. We were basically a gambling house, catering to spectators. Sure, we had telemarketers who broke or bent rules. They’d be fired, though, and beaten. Most of our team was legit. I tried my best to be. I was proud of my rapport with my clients, and honesty.]]]]]]]]

LUNCH CODA: Jenildo the Homosexual and I took turns sales-pitching each other and punched each other in the face.

(Telemarketers at Liberty often did this, at the urging of Taliban or just to practice. Telemarketers pitching, fronting each other, in hallways, bathrooms, before/after shifts, slapping, punching, kicking afterwards.)

Jenildo and I hugged it out and Jenildo recommended my soul to God.

Taliban whipped us both with his snakeskin belt and kissed our heads and we locked hands, said a prayer to FRED, and Woo Bum and I scraped a happy and we all merrily skipped together (sans TT) back to the

Liberty Funeral Room.

On the way, Woo Bum told me NEA had, on his feed, just shut down his previous room for what the

NEA calls "churning accounts."

[This is the practice of trading a bastard’s account excessively for only the purpose of generating smackers.]

Woo Bum swiped out his happy stick, smiled, and said he worried they might come after him because of his chemtrails.

He said he didn’t care if NEA was Class A, he’d shoot or stab, grenade fuck them all, because his human girlfriend was pregnant, and he couldn’t be an Unemployable again. I could tell he meant it by the quivering in his voice. It was the first real emotion I’d seen in him or anyone, in person, in a while.

“Drugs or Jeebus,” I whisper in his ear.

“BAMAS,” he replied.

We stopped to watch a flying fuckyoumobile glider-car smack into a FRED subsidized real estate dev billboard.

The flyer exploded upon impact, and Woo Bum and I watched the flames eat into the billboard. We zoomed off as the billboard began its collapse into the street nearby and the fire spread.

AFTERNOON SHIFT: Back in the Funeral Room, there was a company séance for Fear EA6 and an animal sacrifice, a synth squirrel, by a local voodoo priest, to ward off the approaching hurricane.

It would likely miss Florida but bury the remnants of a Caribbean island, Papillon, once populated by escaped private prison slaves.

Most modern buildings could withstand frequent hurricanes, CAT 7, included, but still there’d be Fear, with a hurricane nearby, and the surfers who’d brave/livestream the tidal waves, and the daredevils flying their jetpacks, paragliding into the storms for Thrill.

(Force vacuums rendered once damaging storm surge, tsunamis a relic, but still, the radar images stoked


“ … “

I manned my coffin pod and hit brains.

Got hung up on quite a bit and had a lot of no answers.

My bastard, Mr. Most Glorious Dipendra, from Ding, Delaware wasn't there.

I left him a brainmail to beam ASAP, get in on Jealousy...

Brainwaves started to heat up, I got a couple promising front loads, and then SLAMMED!

First was Mr. One, who owned an insult business in New Jersey Shore.

His business was sending MBOTS and FBOTS to sing insults or fake assaults, shooting attacks and catch the reactions on STREAM cam. He glowingly bought 7 IN options on Rage.

Then a retired antique SEXTOY marketing exec in Cuntsville, Texas, a Mr. Butts.

SEXTOYS were useless in the days of BOTS but were sold as antiques, collectibles on the networks.

We had a nostalgic chat about the days of pocket pussies and dildos, full contact sports.

(MMA, Gladiator Fights – usually Cyborgs or BOT… Were the only contact sports left, but, without humans, CTE, actual death, they lacked their former place in the pantheon of entertainment. e-SPORTS, VR overtaking them long ago.)

((Baseball one of the few sports still played by humans, mostly Class B, C, and had enjoyed a renaissance since the rules had been altered, allowing for batters, dissatisfied with a pitch, to charge, attack the pitcher with the bat, beat, choke him/her with it, and pitchers able to throw directly at, bean, any batter, opponent, heckling fan or teammate.))

(((Brawls, knifings, and one Molotov cocktail throw per team were not only tolerated, but encouraged, and ratings soared.)))

((((For the 9th inning, a decapitated comedian’s or poet’s head would be substituted, used as the baseball, batted, hit, caught, and could also be kicked))))

(((((Golf, remade into a conflict sport, played spontaneously, in urban areas, with golfers allowed/encouraged to attack, swinging golf clubs, striking each other, caddies, onlookers, pedestrians…

Golf second only to baseball in human Fucking Sports STREAM popularity)))))

Mr. Butts bought 3 options on Dismay.

I was raking in smackers. Our board lit up with my name on it, and a few balled up pieces of re-papers were thrown at my coffin pod. A show of admiration.

Jennifer winked at me, too, which gave me the fuzzy-wuzzies.

But then the waves started to cool. I was hung up on, jibba-jibbered, flurries of non-answers, disconnects.

Despite The Fucking Happy Channel STREAM hologram footage of smiling 1970s Scandinavians, vint. “Don’t Worry, Be Happy” ringing here/there in my neural, between zaps, my mood soured and worsened when a day trader, Mr. Barton, in San Diego Beach punted me after taunting me for having a big nose and saying that only a thin layer of perspiration could keep me to “Maggot Mile.”

(MAGGOT MILE, FLORIDA: Is what this part of Florida was once known as, and still occasionally is, due to the prevalence of Funeral Rooms, Email Rooms, and Door-to-Door Marketers, Doomsday Sellers and kinky special FBOT factories.)

((These types of companies are pretty much the only economy outside of agriculture, namely python/alligator/lizard farming, and cocaine tourism- Sunshine State being the only to have legal cocaine districts.))

(((South Florida has armies of mobile, roaming doomsday marketing companies, going Door-to-Door.

They’re banned from incorporating in other States, but still legal here, and hence able to operate in other States.)))

((((Florida also has cults of salespeople, crawling, prostrating, begging, cajoling, roving door to door, hustling, BOT parts, e-books/mag subs, weapons, or better BAMA card processing rates to businesses.))))

(((((The Doomsday Sellers, Marilyn Manson Cults, were the most persistent. They’d knock on doors for at least an hour, cry, grovel, beg for attention, donations. Every year it was a different catastrophe: a tsunami, tornado, asteroid, earthquake, supervolcano, network outages resulting in mass death, or just death by boredom. Doomsday Sellers were nearly always the Unemployables, off-grid, neural link disabled. Since they lacked or chose not to wear body armor, they’d be frequently killed. Many took pride in shooting them or assaulting them. Viral CHITTER videos, Fucking Mayhem STREAMS featured door-to-door sales cults being brutalized/raped/killed/licked/enflamed.)))))

FLORIDA: Florida had always attracted weirdness, pirates, people who like to talk like pirates, castaways, absconders, Mennonites, Funeral Rooms, rogue operations, surfers, Tim Dorsey, criminals, OJ Simpson, sweet talkers, drug lords, e-SPORTS, and rejects.

It still had the "Homestead Exemption" statute, which meant authoritarians can't seize your house for anything other than an offense against Class A.

Still many build, pour BAMAS into their homes and real estate knowing it can't be seized.

Florida was also ahead of the curve in legalized murder.

The aforementioned “Stand Your Ground” statute, way before the legal solution of legitimizing, legalizing mass shootings, murder, and violent crime.

Rape and other sex crimes, like most of the States, were still illegal, except towards the CLASS C, D, though neither rarely were practiced, with BOTS able to service those needs…

(Any offender who did rape or molest a Class A, B, [eye cams, face rec, sex sec cams, sec cams, DNA nanotech making the crime virtually impossible to get away with, except for Class A offenders] convicted offenders’ organs/blood harvested, then put to death by flamethrower BOT, and since most anyone was linked through the neural networks, it was nearly impossible to commit illegal fantasy crimes too, or inappropriate thoughts, subversion, threats to FRED...)

Florida had always been ahead of the curve. Automation didn’t change much, either, with most of the population being an Unemployable, anyway.

The bottom half sinking lessened the population, particularly that of Unemployables, that so-called “Great Catastrophe”. One of the many climate events.

Though once the land was mechanically reclaimed, refined, drained, reinforced with barrier concrete and

Element 627, wave repelling fields, vacuums, regurgitation channels, canals, habitats, many of the Class A and B returned, rebuilt, improved it immensely.

I, for one, have always lived in Florida and never wanted life anywhere else.

Most travel, wanderlust is obsolete, anyway, with VR Travel.

For better and worse, Florida is home.

The palm trees, sandy beaches, crystal clear neon waters. The chemical sunsets…


“ … “

DANIMAL: Dan the Man, the DANIMAL, the Quantum Boogeyman, walked by my coffin pod and

jokingly kicked it, seeing I wasn’t dialing.

DANIMAL swiped me a hostile message about how straws, pipes, guns, tanks, knives, skyscrapers, missiles were all phallic, extensions of the penis.

He continued, revealing that extremely low frequency electromagnetic waves had been controlling at least three of our telemarketers and handed me a golden amulet with a stencil of a kitten on it, telling me it was the perfect ELF weapon.

“I guess it’s better off this way,” he egged me on, “and you know that seemingly healthy, dashing and handsome STREAM STAR who dropped dead at 50? No one REALLY cared that HE died; middle-age assholes only worried they might croak too. Narcisticks! I’ve been recording their voices. I know.” “End the torment!”


DANIMAL playfully kicked my coffin pod again, kicked Jennifer’s, Woo Bum’s, and smiled, waved, jumped through the ceiling.

“ … “

RETURN: I realized that I've been soft scrolling my hand machine, catching up on celebrity STREAM STAR gossip, my mind rambling on.

It happened to me frequently. My mind wandered. After I made 200 or 300 waves, it was hard to focus. I zapped back and buzzed a few more leads. Nothing doing. Fortunately, I’d smacked those options before or else the day would have been a bust.

END OF SHIFT: The day was finally coming to a merciful end. I watched the closing bell suicide on the CET in Chicago North on FUCKING MONEY NEWS.

(The daily suicide was usually a Class C or D human who’d either kill him/herself for fun or allow floor traders or BAMABOTS to murder him/her for compensation.)

((Today it was a failed sports mascot contestant from a Fucking Reality STREAM, in a gorilla costume, who ate a running chainsaw as the closing bell rang.))

Most of the brokers were packing up their things and leaving. Some were staying to work late and make more buzzes. I think I did around 200 something digits all together. I decided to leave and gathered my things, straightened up my coffin pod, and detached my suction headset.

Angry Anders stood in Dracula face by the Funeral Room’s door, pinching everyone’s ass on his/her way out. I stopped to fake punch him in the dick, and he didn’t even flinch, only complimented me on my earlier smackers.

I hovered to the lot, saw Jennifer strapping on her hover-vest.

It was beat up, propellers rusty. I felt sorry for her that she had such a crappy transport.

She noticed me looking over at her, meekly smiled and waved goodbye to me. I jiffy smiled and waved back.

Then I entered my vehicle, scraped a happy stick and turned on the radio to the Slap station. A vint song from the slapper CC Murder Murder was playing.

Mustafa, holding an imaginary bear cub in a headlock, bobbed his head to the beat, and we proceeded back home.

Radar showed an active mucker nearby, on a flash, rock throwing, face slashing spree.

He’d emerged from a companionship shopping mall, (now shuttered) an abandoned mall that humans still go to, just to walk around, stare into closed stores, set fires, hunt wild baboon, hyena and spray paint anti-boredom slogans.

Punching into my hand machine, I adjusted my route according to radar…

RIDE HOME/AFTER WORK: The ride home was never as hectic as the ride in the morning.

I passed a burning carbo auto-truck, carrying mucker corpses to be cremated, and my exhaust fanned its flames; a circle of onlookers vacuuming pumps at it booed and hissed me.

Work hours were 9 am to 3 pm (the hours which the emotions exchanges are open) so I usually beat the afternoon rush hour. Although many don’t work, were automated, still, many drove to their former places of employment and back every day.

There were a lot of flying school buses around this time. Each one fully armor-plated, with jets, flamethrowers, and each child, starting in preschool, wielding weapons, automatic rifles, each child in solid body-armor. Each thoroughly trained in martial arts, rendering childhood obesity a relic, at least the Class A, B.

Muckers were rarely successful anymore in attacking schools. The last successful (plus 5 human death toll) school attack resulted from a pack of roving, starving hyenas inadvertently(?) finding their way into a high school food dispensary in Ohio City.

Since then body armor software patches upgraded to withstand even pit bull, shark jaws.

(Although the majority of furry, feather, warm blood organic quad-ped mammals were endangered/extinct, baboons and hyenas had proliferated widely, and, in select areas, were intentionally let loose and allowed to roam freely in Class B, C neighborhoods by FRED, in hopes of fostering higher levels of community, togetherness…)

On my drive back I always saw a homeless tribe of lawyers, painted neon green, wearing only loin cloths, on the blue light intersection of Route 1. They were begging for kangaroo meat, begging for BUCKS at stop lights.

The leader of the tribe, a chubby Mr. T guy with missing front teeth, heavy gold chains and a dirty brown trench coat would occasionally prostrate in the street only to be kicked away by roving police BOTS.

Unlike the other lawyers in his tribe, who’d be shot at, and insouciantly murdered by passing motorists, drones, the tribal leader still had body armor of the highest caliber. I saw him eat grenades once and vint BOLLYWOOD dance afterwards.

I often saw another panhandler a couple blocks further up on the same road, a haggardly, cock-eyed, skinny, skeleton white naked Kellyanne lady with coiffed, pointy purple mohawk.

She’d hold out a wooden peg leg with a forbidden plastic shopping bag tied to it and she’d beg for BAMAS and cockroach milk.

She also couldn’t be killed.

I witnessed more than three people shoot her, saw her run over by an 18-wheeler, and every time, her exoskeleton reformed, and she sprang back up, continued panhandling, showing zero malice, grinning ear to ear.

On Tuesday and Thursday, we bang out at 3pm but are required to come back in the evening, from 6pm to 9pm.

Evenings were an opportune time to close front loads, after hours emotions trading, spot up futures, especially Violent Rage peaked then, domestic violence most frequent at dinnertime.

It used to be humans hated being called at dinnertime by telemarketers, but these days human wives appreciated the interruption if her husband was violent.

Husbands as well enjoyed a break from nagging or something to alleviate boredom, another human to speak to, or scream/curse at.

One of my best bastards, I call at 6pm every Tuesday, and he screams at the top of his lungs until he’s hoarse and will afterwards purchase Serenity options.

Many times, on Tues or Thurs, I’d simply stay in my coffin pod, zap as many brains as possible. Do around 600 zaps. Any agent with over 600 zaps won a free organic lunch. Possum burgers, kangaroo, alligator steaks were magnificent motivational tools…

There are days when my neighbor Zany Zephen and I have roachmilk pancakes at IHOP.

The waitress working there lived in my building, but now is a cyborg slave, sold her humanity to FRED to end her lifetime of torment/boredom.

Her human name was Laurie, body form slightly chubby, blond shoulder length hair, big boobs/butt, blue eyes.

Maybe 30 human years.

She had a cute face and I flirted with her, even though she wasn’t human or an FBOT. She gave me free rat shit coffee.

I wasn’t going for roachmilk pancakes today, though. I needed a walk...

A few dead bodies, not sure human or BOT were on the road, and I thumped over them, returned to the car cubicle of my building, feeling tired, worn out from beatings and brains.

A few days prior, a commander, Gadirov, had crabwalked and beaten me during a bathroom break, for paying tribute to the anniversary of vint metal band Warrant’s singer’s death.

Despite my body armor, it injured, bruised me.

If he wasn’t Class A, I would shoot or stab him. Most supervisors are Class A and armed with laser cannons, mucker detection systems; very few workplace massacres happened anymore...

Parking my car, I noticed an idiot in a vint football uniform, pads, cleats, everything, across the road had crashed his Spider UV into a plastic palm tree and traffic was stalled.

The public police and public ambulance and BOTS were there. I saw their blue, pink and red lights flashing.

I heard Mustafa say four humans died when a moto-hover-cycle going 190 mph hit a proto-car on the loopway.

There were horrible road accidents, every day, with people, BOTS, animals dying.

Most weren’t reported unless enough died, especially humans, especially Class A.

Bored, automated people sometimes caused accidents intentionally, turning to ramming, auto-attacks because it was getting harder and harder to kill with guns.

It really hacked up traffic and made commutes longer when there were road accidents, intentional or not.

In the car cube I saw crazy eyes Charles.

He'd just pulled in too and was locking his door with a key. I guess he didn't have the luxury of keyless, face rec entry like I do.

As I exited my vehicle I smiled and waved hello to him, and he returned a weird look again.

Though I still wasn’t sure if he was looking at me. His clothes were splattered in blood; hands dripping cherry pie.

Why was he always in the parking lot? I thought maybe he was a spy from the NEA. Taliban told me he thinks he has a Soprano following him on Tuesdays and Fridays…

My landlady, Griselda, was supposed to come to pick up the rent. Griselda was a dwarfish, pudgy, rabbit lady, with a square face, no chin and big brown burning eyes.

Human years: 50s or 60s and she’d been too cheap or luddite to upgrade her PS/AI software to project a younger image.

She wore much too much makeup, had a bushy, wavy mane of graying black hair and she doused herself in a nauseating perfume and had some of the tackiest hologram clothes you would ever see. Leopard print everything.

Her jewelry, while I'm sure was quite expensive, had a cheap look to it; she might buy it off one of those Fucking Home Shopping STREAMS.

She had a high-pitched nasal Bostonian accent, was very forgetful, and often didn’t show up to pick up the rent CASH or blood.

(Rent could be paid by either Freedom Div, CASHBAMA, or vials of human blood. Human blood being quite valuable, used for a variety of medical, cosmetic, mechanical purposes.)

Sometimes Griselda would forget about the rent altogether and I'd have gotten a free month if I didn’t remind her. She’d reward my honesty with helpings of kangaroo haggis, which I appreciated…

One time she asked me why I just didn't send the rent to her, which I usually paid in blood vials, by delivery drone.

I told her she never gave me her address (which was true).

She said she'd send it to me after she visited a tenet in the building, but never came back. Every time I asked for her address, she’d promised she’d give it to me later, but never did.

She owned half of the apartments in the building.

BUILDING: Speaking of the building, it was antique and in bad shape.

From the 19--s, retrieved from a sinkhole, it was originally built in the art deco, Streamline Moderne, style of architecture, curvy, horizontal, and resembling an ocean liner.

Five storeys high, time and various hurricanes, however, had taken their toll on it… Not much had been done during its boring reconfiguration.

The (probably) once neon pink exterior paint was now a puke pink.

Various exterior and interior bits of the building were crumbling away. Chunks of the building would fall off, strike a person or BOT.

Last week, a STREET/SWEEP BOT returned the favor, hurling a chunk of puke concrete back at the building, which, in turn, caused a larger piece to break off, the larger piece then dropping on and flattening the BOT!

Besides the exterior, the basement flooded a lot, with seawater, skeletons, BOT parts, and alligators, pythons, baboons living down there, as well as in the stairwells, where no humans went.

One of the two elevator tubes has been broken for a year.

The BUILDING REPAIR BOT never fixed it, despite the numerous complaints from tenants, driven to madness, whacking the BOT with tennis racquets, throwing tantrums.

The working elevator tube broke quite often and would do peculiar things like floating floor to floor and opening its doors even though no one was in it.

The building was rumored to be haunted, scene of a formerly criminal Colombian cocaine cartel culling...

Out of the ordinary, stranger things would happen in my apartment (and in former Laurie’s too) like goggles, forks, or cups disappearing and reappearing later in the damnedest places. Stuff fell over for no reason.

The building’s interior was decent, however.

The doors to the units were a bucolic beige, made from synthetic bleached oak.

The synth banana silk carpet and hallways and lobby were alt-bright neon pink, lined with overhead, spherical freon lights.

There were paintings of car crashes, a chimpanzee biting off a woman’s face, tidal waves and red velvet couches in the lobby.

But only paintings, impressionist rendering of couches. No real, physical couches, but one could be downloaded, and 3D printed, rented via hand machine.

The building’s plumbing was a disaster. One time there were rubber robo-frogs (spawned by Russian hackers) spitting out of the bathroom sink hose/faucets, chewing, gnawing at people’s faces, and radioactive python snakes springing out of waste disposal chutes, burrowing into people, through their anuses, eating into lower intestines.

It continued, the robo-frog, anal python assault issue/problem, for 5 days, FIVE DAYS until SOMEONE called a local NEWSBOT about the situation.

The management company that runs the building was blaming the city.

The city blamed the management for having faulty pipes, dumping waste, contaminating and sexually experimenting on pythons.

They, the city, even came to inspect the pipes three times. I was surprised they didn't condemn the building like they did to a similar aging art deco up the street.

The whole thing was a scandal. It was all over the Local Fucking News STREAMS. I was defecating out my window the whole time and using only air particle water.

The local news Alison BOT, was stationed, streaming outside of our building, ambushing residents for interviews for 29 straight hours.

A BOOM NEWSBOT later burst from a synth mangrove outside the building’s management company, questioning a cyborg, microphone/cam tentacles omni-directional.

The cyborg wouldn't comment however and tried to hide her face, using an umbrella.

Finally, the management, under heat from social media, fixed the problem.

It was the management's fault after all. A busted pipe near a robot factory, also managed by the management, the factory run by i-robots and sadists.

The management company being the management company, too cost-efficient to fix it, until their fingers forced.

My friend Anissa said properties like this were relics of the time in Florida when owners of aging art deco buildings couldn’t sell to developers, because the developers wanted to tear down and construct new luxury condo towers on the land.

(The art deco code stipulated they couldn’t be demolished because of historical ordinances regarding buildings of a certain age).

So, to circumvent the law, owners would allow the art deco to rot and fall apart so that it had to be condemned; thus, paving the way for its destruction.

Property values had shot up, and many extracting owners were eager to unload to development companies seeking to build luxury condominiums.

Luxury condominiums were all the rage in south Florida; many seniors on fixed-incomes, rent-controlled properties were forced from their homes, made homeless.

The land being overbuilt and pushed further and further below sea level was part of what led to the “Great Catastrophe” when the bottom half of the State sunk and broke apart during the Cat 6, New Labor Day Hurricane.

Ironically, my building was deemed vintage enough to be reclaimed, salvaged from the underwater debris, retrofitted and repurposed, while many of the luxury condos were not.

“ … “

Sitting in the lobby on a 3D couch, staring at pink floor dolphins, I checked the clock on the spirit house outside.

Almost twenty minutes past when Griselda said she was going to meet me.

I picked up to move and figured I’d find her later, although I was upset that I had just spent twenty minutes of my life waiting for her and I'll never have that time back.

I decided to take a stroll on the white sand/coral shell beach, which I often did to unwind.

FREE TIME: The elevator tube was working and pushed me up to my floor.

Face rec’d into my apartment, and I holographed into a light blue tropical shirt with white floral patterns, flip flops and dark green camo-cargo cartridge shorts.

I pissed into the disposal hose, piffed up a happy, watched the Fucking News Channel.

Revolutionary Sean Suicide BOT, his dark proton charged octagon visors and bucket shape D2, was on the feed, flicking crazy about the gay synth cat issue, housecats too gay to mate, breed, dwindling cat video supplies, cat toy sales.

The Cruel at the bottom of the screen: “10 FRED Corp human soldiers killed by a roadside ice cream truck bomb along Russian border.”

“91 human civilians, mostly school children, were killed by a series of coordinated kamikaze clown attacks in Canada West.”

No group on CHITTER had yet claimed responsibility for either incident.

e-SPORTS scores, tomorrow's weather for major cities. Everywhere was blazing hot or freezing cold.

Floods in the Midwest and intentional fires in Cali Next.

I switched to the Fucking Fire Channel and watched a burning ranch-style mansion, the owner, Bigfoot

IV, hanging out of a side window, attempting to scale the left wing, grappling steel chains, while exotic Tibetan dogs were burning alive in a fiery diamond acid pool behind...

The elevator chute was offline again, so I jumped out the window, hand machine parachute gliding to the beach nearby.

BEACH: I liked to walk on the beach because it gave me time to ponder random things and look at girls in bikinis.

A lot of human girls, FBOTS, cyborgs bathe topless, wear thongs, wear nothing. Little I enjoy more than a firm, well-bronze-tanned ass in a skimpy thong lying in the sand, catching UV rays.

The ability to go power walking, paragliding, or cartwheeling along the beach, being so near the neon green water, was what I appreciated most about my neighborhood zone, my building.

A winding boardwalk that’d morph into a rollercoaster, led along the beach, stretched miles.

Parts were plastic, synthetic, wooden, stretches fitted from human bone, and it had benches and cabanas, full of animated skeletons, dopamine stations.

Lots of graffiti in those cabanas, much from before the GC, hieroglyphics, computer code jokes, a lot of stuff in Spanish.

There were girly brain numbers on the cabana walls and on the walls of public bathrooms too by the beach.

Jumpy Jared dared me, so I called one and asked her if it was true, what was written regarding her sexual exploits. I figured she’d disconnect, but we ended up having a long conversation about the Second US Civil War, and we went on to VR date for a couple weeks. The relationship sadly ended soon after, however, when she went to jail for assaulting a public traffic BOT, with a vibrational, over an air dispute.

(Jails/State/Fed/FRED Prisons had been largely closed, for budgetary reasons. Mentally ill,

Unemployable prisoners culled, deported to Russia.)

((However, a handful, in remote locations, remained in use, housing those who committed offenses towards Class A, B, police/private property, certain privileged BOTS.))

(((Prison camps run by BOT guards, manned by human scientists, from FRED Corps., conducting human anatomical, mental experiments, for the ultimate purpose of developing updates to AI, BOT; advancements in human medicine, cyborg science.)))

((((Prisoners, occasionally selected as contestants in Fucking Running Game STREAM, Fucking Torture,

Fucking Execution STREAM.))))

“ … “

Usually I walk on the boardwalk because there isn’t as much broken glass, bullets, and BOT parts, alligator teeth and bodily fluids.

Vintage condoms, cocaine bags, and duffel bags of (old/decommissioned) US dollars wash up on the shore from time to time. Furniture, chunks of plaster, body parts, cars, guns. Florida heirlooms.

Come to think of it, though, you find stuff on the boardwalk too on occasion.

A lot of people jog on the boardwalk. Even during the winter when it's 105 degrees. I saw an Osama pass out once, think he was dying from heat exhaustion. I just kept walking and stepped over him because I didn't want to get involved/sued.

(Families of deceased humans, malfunctioned BOTS, would sue if a [Class B or below] bystander happened upon a fresh, rotting, or dying human/BOT, and could prove the bystander had no part in the death or that it was not a violent death. So it was best to avoid such circumstances.)

It wasn't really that hot this afternoon, only about 100 with the heat index, muggy too, an icky burning plastic smell wafted in the air from the bonfire a doomsday cult of accountants had set.

Their bodies were painted in numbers, and they were torching old phones, computers. Accountants frequently attacked BOTS, committed acts of arson on ROBOT buildings. The “Death Toll” Cult, those, I believe, circling the fire, were often euthanized, their remains pulverized, manufactured into cockroach feed.

I walked down the boardwalk inspecting female bodies and laughing at goofy tourists.

Although most tourism is in VR, Florida still had a lot of tourists, physical human ones.

Murder laws in other States were more complicated, so there were those who came to kill. Also, the legal cocaine, of course, which had been the biggest draw since the GC.

Public nudity, defecation, urination had been legalized too, so there were many tourists into bathroom fetishes, especially North Germans, who’d run naked in the streets, shit while smiling, snapping hand machine selfies to post to the networks, CHITTER.

SANI-BOTS and shit-eating tourists, usually the North Germans, would rush in to scoop up, eat or dispose of the feces. Due to diminishing amounts of pale skin people, pale skin people poop (and pubic hair) was treasured, considered having powerful, nutritional qualities, and was sold to cockroach farms and to wealthy Asiatic aristocrats.

When South Beach existed, there were several hotels, nightclubs. Many were resurrected, refurbished to museums, where tourists could stand with replicas, BOTS of famous celebrities, fornicate or snort coke with them.

Most of the new hotels were tubes, capsule unit towers, capable of holding masses, their BOTS. The modern nightclubs full of VR booths, neural links to tailored fantasy, FBOTS, MBOTS, VIP ROOMS for e-SPORT stars; rarely did anyone dance and or random facetime.

Most nightclubs, in compliance with FRED, had laws about public dancing, strict punishments, including caning, spanking and disfigurement to those who’d dance in non-recognition… I walked for about an hour up and down the boardwalk scraping happy sticks.

As I was walking back, I saw a bunch of one-legged West Indian tourists hopping hysterically from out of the ocean.

They were yelling: “Shark, shark!”

I looked out into the water but didn't see any fins. It might have been an electric dolphin BOT; tourists mistake them for sharks sometimes. But then I noticed the bloody torso stumps, saw one drop to the sand in a mess of blood, urine.

Organic sharks had long been dead, except for the clones, populated by Asiatic aristocrats for delicacy and set loose by East China aqua bandits to terrorize South China, Japanese, and other adversaries, most recently East China aqua bandits unleashed cloned, viciously hungry sharks nearby Coca Cuba to weaken Florida’s fledgling tourist economy.

In fact, I shake-bottle-chat telepathed with a Roy in PCOLA whose roommate's cousin’s best friend’s sister's surfer boyfriend got his whole arm bitten off by a cloned shark.

Sharing a mutual hatred of surfers, we were both apathetic, but it was a cautionary tale. One the West

Indians should have heeded.

I clicked a few hand snaps of them writhing in the sand, blood gushing. Tourist Drone BOTS touched down and mechanical arms began welding shut the wounds. They’d require 3D limb replacements, but they’d probably be alright. A worthy #story for Instablam or CHITTER.

Before I crossed the street to get to my building, I witnessed a macabre sight on the thoroughfare: A couple of belligerents playing twister in a pile of mangled steel, bloody boots, and shredded tires.

It was the scene of a motorized, flying broomstick accident.

One belligerent a drag queen, young (maybe 19), thin, tall, sidewalk haircut, scorpion face tattoos, mauve skin, wearing a hotter pink sleeveless tight spandex half-shirt, matching hottest pink spandex short shorts.

The other a short, fat, old (probably 60), bald polar white guy who had a red CPT Slam A-shirt, khaki shorts.

Both were barefoot.

The drag queen was screaming at the top of his lungs how the Slam was at fault.

The Slam guy, in Southern drawl: “Rooty tooty fruity!” and uppercut punched the queen in the gut.

The queen crumpled, holding his stomach, then used his hand machine to mace and mist the Slam.

Blinded, the Slam stumbled backwards.

The queen cold clocked Slam in the schnozzle with a well-executed right cross and scan stole the Slam’s QR and lifted off, via the Slam’s rebel flag painted broomstick, snapped a selfie and vanished into the sky.

Slam was rolling around on the sidewalk, with his hands grasping his burning wet face, his nose gushing blood: "My eyes, my eyes!"

The Death Toll Cult of Accountants I’d seen earlier dragged away the Slam by his legs.

I paraglided back to my apartment, flew in through the window.

APARTMENT: Back into my apartment, I was drenched in sweat from walking the beach. My coolant BOT unit was on the fritz again, probably needed an update.

I wanted to take a shower, but the water BOT pressure was too low. Perhaps pythons in the pipes again.

Whatever. I opened the icebox, let a melty spider BOT crawl freeze over my forehead, which brought down my core temperature and dried out my pores.

Despite the water not working well, it felt good to be home. I glanced over at a picture I have on the wall near the kitchen area of my friend Anissa and I at a VR/FBOT strip bar she took me for my birthday last month.

She and I were sitting next to each other arm and arm with a naked strip girly girl BOT doing a headstand next to me.

That's the only picture or anything I have up. I'm not really the type for decorating, I guess. Actually, I do have a "Fucking Hooters FBOT" e-calendar tab stuck up to the wall above my bed.

Since I'm only renting, bloodletting, I figure I shouldn't go out of my way to make it look spiffy or sink CASH into it.

The place is falling apart but looked classy in VR vision. IRL, the walls (and ceilings) were chipping neon pink paint. The floor was banana yellow color tiles, which were always ice cold.

I had a queen-sized bed near the only window- a circular, e-sliding one (tinted rose).

My furniture: ONE old brown dresser, nothing in it, about 4 and a half feet high beside the bed. ONE 35 projection unit BOT for images.

ONE refrigeration BOX, ICE unit included. ONE organic food prepper BOX, coffee machine BOX (my coffee machine occasionally possessed by the ghost of Charles Bukowski, who PREFERS a bitter blend, thank you very much!), and a sustenance PILL storage BOX beside it.

There were no chairs or a couch, though I could project a 3D rental from my hand machine, if needed.

The AC BOT, full of ELEMENT 75832, revolved around me, the unit, piping in 86F cool air.

The apartment was very small, only like 15 ft by 10 ft with a low ceiling and no built-in lights, but the AC BOT also did lighting.

The unit was rectangular, a small bathroom to the north left, kitchen area to the north right, next to the kitchen, a closet, south right, my bed/window, south left, a 3D table/desk/two pleather rolly chairs I semi-perma-DL.

My hand machine disposable 3D utensils, sapper plates, bowls, kitchen mini-sink, floors, walls, disposal unit, myself were kept spotless by the sani-BOT and FBOT/COMPANION BOT.

DINNER: I chewed a cockroach powder pill, chili flavor, drank a quart of purple lime Beetlejuice and slapped myself in the face three times.

PERSONAL: I’d not been in a true, traditional relationship with an organic human woman in ever. My FBOT, who I can change into any aesthetic, and VR PORN had been my bellwether as far as intimacy.

(These days I’d been programming my FBOT/VR to look, sound, smell like Jennifer, and had been banging the hell out of it…)

Like most guys, VR PORN, FBOTS had overtaken organic human females years ago.

Organic females, they're so complicated. Most had their own MBOTS, and the attractive ones stuck to rich, famous, e-SPORT athletes, STREAM STARS, baseball players.

Again, like most contemporaries, my actual relations with organic women had been limited, since mostly schooling was outsourced, remote, VR.

There were a couple, a couple VR girlfriends, met on interaction networks, but they never lasted long.

SEX FILE: I lost my virginity when I was [human] 18 to my aunt (my mom's sister).

Her name was Mona.

She was a voluptuous, beautiful woman with long, flowing, dark brown hair that fell to her shoulders, light olive skin and big pearly blue eyes like a STREAM STAR.

I'd been beating my meat daily those days since forever and had discovered the ‘adult’ side of the networks.

Mona was really drunk this one day. Practically every time I saw her, she was drunk or on something. She'd been babysitting me at her apartment while my parents, mid-range, Class B coders, hand machine addicts I rarely had contact with then/now, were in a cube VR conference.

Stabbing and kicking at a VR zombie hologram, I craned my neck to see Mona waltz into the living room, stark naked, asking me to join her for a shower! I dropped my VR set and drool poured from my mouth!

I’d never even seen a living naked woman before that. Of course, I hardened immediately, tore off my clothes, and she led me by the hand into the shower BOT partition, sat on a wash stool, parted her legs and grabbed ahold of my 18-teenis and guided me into her paradise.

We humped like rabbits that whole day, slept together in her bed.

When we woke up the following morning, she felt brutal and guilty about it, broke into tears, and said she'd been calloused lonely since her divorce.

I didn’t know how to deal with her emotions; it was the first time I’d seen someone cry in front of me, aside from pain or violence. I didn’t know exactly what to do.

But she was naked in bed with me, which, eyeing her delicious body, got me stiff, again, and I plunged into her once more, and several more times over the rest of that weekend. We barely talked. Just had sex and drank and scraped happy sticks.

Being a horny young bastard, I of course had enjoyed it. How soft her skin was, how amazing an organic vagina felt. To this day, even the most expensive FBOT or VR PORN can’t replicate it, truly, though there are vibrato vaginas and random robo-variants that offer intense thrills.

But NOTHING, NOTHING is truly the same as org human vagina.

I'll never forget how good it was the first time I penetrated her. How it felt. How my cock slipped inside, engulfed to the base in warmth, the warmth cascading through the essence of my entirety.

It didn't really seem like child molestation or incest or anything wrong, the whole thing.

Looking back at it, though, it's pretty disgusting when I think about it, and it likely altered my relations with the opposite sex somehow.

I never saw Mona again after that weekend. She committed suicide, overdosed on Grief pills, and sold her corpse to a cannibal on a DEATH APP a couple weeks later after her ex-husband married a human girl- who was only 19.

ENTERTAINMENT: I’d planned to watch the Fucking Disaster Channel STREAM. They’d been broadc’ing vids, loops of tsunamis and sea drowning.

The 04, 11, --, I couldn’t wait to watch.

Their AI breaks in when fresh disasters strike, too, buildings collapsing in East China, Shanghai especially trendy.

There were 5 incidents live last night. Building failures, toppling in East China. There was one feed with humans thrown from windows of a Huawei skyscraper in Shenzhen by malfunctioning, hacked BOTS.

The incident blamed on a Japanese manufacturer.

I really enjoyed the third installment of the series on tsunamis. One in 36 swallowed and vacuumed a village, straw huts, cars, flailing humans, BOTS, drones picking out survivors. Drones intentionally dropping survivors due to splack by CHITTER viewers, likes and thumbs up, posturing, rambling posts alongside the carnage, pulled from the boards of 16CAN.

A wacky splacker, probably a Russian, interrupted the tsunami footage, broke into the STREAM and broadcast “Ebony Gangbang” a porn star from the 1990s.

She had the roundest ass I’d ever seen and was running a train on a football team of Rocco musclebound meatheads, blowing one guy, getting it anal from one, vaginal from another, jerking off two guys with both hands and there were two other guys masturbating and shooting jizz at her.

It was amazing!

The Cruel on the bottom of the screen read that she’d won an adult film award for this very scene.

The dexterity and poise she showed, unparalleled, the Cruel boasted.

The splacker said he’d been writing her ghost in the machine, cemetery cloud, barrages of fan mail for months and last week FINALLY got a signed picture in a classic AOL YOU GOT MAIL HTML frame!

The splacker dissolved the camera feed. Probably located and exterminated. Splackers were hackers who spliced and infiltrated STREAM feeds for vanity or in desperate pleas for attention, BUCKS or to advertise, or simply to cause mischief.

Splacking was punishable by caning, the caning administered by CANEBOT. Three splacks and you’re out LAW meant those who splacked more than three times hung upside down by KILLBOT and had throat slashed. Corpse repurposed and administered to cockroach feed farms.

SEX: Before VR, people actually, mostly human male, called phone sex lines to jerk off.

A lot.

However, despite VR, FBOT, there are niche chatter sex lines to organic human female, proudly advertised as NON-AI. HUMAN GIRL!

Males, predominantly, read sex/nude mags, web sites, before VR/AI/BOT, watching, renting (from STORES!) mechanical physical cartridges.

This was, unsurprisingly, rendered obsolete by VR, FBOT.

(Screenshots of porn sites and girly mags can still be found in classics auctions, though, and fetch collectors’ serious BOOKOO BUCKS, buybacks.)

I basically gave up on human females a couple years ago after my last failed attempt at having a girlfriend.

VR/FBOT, way simpler. Especially after zapping brains all day.

Last thing I want is to return to my apartment and require human interaction facetime.

Prostitution, mostly a thing of the past, still existed, in pockets, was legalized, and, once, when bored of

FBOTS/VR, I decided to try out an org fem, human sex servicer.

(Human gigolos, male prostitutes, “call guys” existed, too, for hum fem/gay/bi clientele, offering similar sex/companionship, hugging, snuggling, and boredom alleviation services...)

That’s how I met my best friend, through a call girl, boredom alleviation service.

MY BEST FRIEND: Her name is Anissa. She's really pretty. She's a human hugger, sexual servicer, and also does part time network sex chatter sessions.

Anissa’s got dirty blond, curly hair, a bit past her shoulder blades; she stands about 5'4, and has a slim body that she enjoys flaunting, especially her taught, six pack mid-riff and bouncy C-cup tits and juicy, big round butt.

And her lustrous, icy blue eyes, sparkling…

She’s a bit older than me, like late 30ish, maybe even early 40 human years. I never asked.

She loves to wear thongs and sometimes no underwear at all.

She came over to my apartment a year ago for a trick.

I'd found her through a telepathic call girl ad.

She performed her services on me and was amazing and stayed for almost two hours after we were finished having sex and scraped happy sticks with me and we blabbered endlessly about everything.

We hit it off instantly.

When she was leaving, she told me I could see her again and that it didn't have to be like this, we could go out, VR, or something.

We hugged and frenched for 2 minutes.

And so about once a week since our first encounter we go to a bar or VR for a drink and we’ll talk, and usually she’ll jet over to my IRL place or (me to hers) to scrape happy and have sex.

She has an 8-year-old son, Mitchell, in the ARMY Space Force Cadets, and some regular clients that keep her busy, so she doesn't have much free time.

Her work as a voice chatter sex operator keeps her tied down too.

She does it in the day when her kid is at trainings.

There’ve been times I flew into the window of her terminal and heard her cooing, shouting things like:

"Oh, fuck me! You sexy beast! You fuck you!"

She records, transcribes her sex chats, listens back to them and practices her voicings.

She plays them to me and asks what I think.

(Like if she should have told a guy to eat her pussy or simply to lick her clitoris, stuff about wording, technique).

She zaps my brain, occasionally, and talks dirty to me, to practice, at times joking, at times when she’s horny.

One time I told her I had to get back to my Liberty brainwaves and she kept on going and wouldn't stop brain-fucking me. I told her to kindly stop brain-raping me and disconnected.

She's kinda crazy like that which makes her fun and cute. Oh, and she's also got one of those sexy, throaty voices and a Southern girl accent that drives me wild. She's originally from Middle Tennessee, you know.

Anissa is really cool and smart about a lot of things. She gives me good advice about life.

I asked her why someone as pretty and clever as her does what she does.

Why she isn't a coder, engineer or something?

She told me her father abused her... When she hit 18, she’d had enough and ran away.

She arrived down here on a greyhound drone and started working as a human stripper/convo companion, coyote, and sex chatter.

Another organic f-stripper got her into the human sex racket.

She says she makes way more doing tricks and sex chatter than she did stripping (she hated stripping too, she said).

She's done a couple human Fucking Porn STREAMS; recently did an incest role play where she was the MILF, after a renter of hers turned out to be an h-porn producer searching for new talent.

I saw her, by chance on a STREAM via my FBOT. Anissa blowing a human cop, sucking the happy juice from his cock.

Wearing a black choker, knee high silk stockings, garter belts, and matching black see-thru panties and demi bra, she was delectable and solar hot… I M-saved several mental screenshots of the STREAM, but never told her about it.

She's saved up a decent bit of CASH in interest bearing accounts and figures to retire in a year or two. I like her a lot and greatly cherish her companionship.

Sometimes when I or she is lonely we telepath each other and talk.

She's basically my best friend and the only organic female I speak to, besides Jennifer. And, unlike Jennifer, I am fortunate enough to have sex with ANISSA. And no, I don't pay for it. I did the first time.

But now all I pay for is her drinks when we go out or VR.

NIGHT: It was getting late, so I prepared for bed, FBOT tidied me up, brushed my teeth, cleaned me with an agent mist and air-dried me.

I lay in bed, munched on crunchy armadillo skins, and watched a hologram feed of the Fucking News Channel.

Breaking! LIVE footage of 56 Russian refugees flailing and drowning in a river after their sight-seeing robo-boat capsized in Upper New York. The Cruel showing live comments from viewers, most of which wanted them to die.

I huffed a REM VAC from the AC ARM and drifted off into regeneration status.

REGENERATION VISIONS: I had a couple vivid visions. One was about going to work in the morning with UZI shaped hands and shooting everyone in the office to death.

Then I tried to turn the guns on myself, but I was out of ammo.

I didn't know what to do at this point, so I flipped over a coffin pod, sat on it, and watched STREAMS, took selfies next to the bodies.

The STREAM was the Fucking Money Channel or another financial stream, but I was so sick of those that I turned the dial to Fucking e-SPORTS so I could check up on scores, stats.

Instead of a gaming comp, though, there was a gorilla kicking impersonators in the testicles, a line of celebrity, historical figure impersonators, first Elvis, then Michael Jackson, Kanye West, John Lennon,

Abraham Lincoln, Uncle Sam, Mao Zedong…

The feed blinked yellow and the police BOTS and SWAT team stormed in. Supervisors at Liberty were Class A, they cried, ordering me to prepare for mortality.

They pointed their guns at me and told me to get down on the ground.

Then I heard one of the cops say: "Wait, this is a telemarketing company! He killed them all! Yippy kai yay, sweet job, bro!"

All the cops lowered their weapons, smiled, stepped over the dead bodies, came over to me, started to pat me on the back, high five and congratulate me. One even offered an e-cigar.

Then I was at a black/white newspaper anime ticker tape parade in my honor through the streets of old NYC; until I woke up, snap pissed into the disposal hose, and resumed regeneration.

The next dream I had was me scraping a happy with Jennifer in the women's bathroom of our Funeral Room.

It was choice happy, Cali brand, and we were both happy as clams.

Her smile dissolved and she said to me, dead serious: "You know I'd fuck you, but I don't have any wraps."

"Neither do I," I replied.

"Well, how about you fuck me in the ass?" she said and offered an open jar of Vicky Vaseline.

"Sure, I thought you'd never ask," I replied.

We kissed, battling tongues, and she then turned her around and bent over the sink. She was wearing those pants she had that made her ass look so perfect and shapely.

I swiped my hand machine over her, and her clothes disappeared; only her naked, heart-shaped, uplifted ass pointing at me.

Swiping myself, my clothing vanished, and she reached her hand back, seized my cock and shuffle-rubbed lube onto my penis.

I opened her butt cheeks and guided my erect penis into her asshole. Wow, it felt amazing, so hot and tight. I pumped my penis in and out and tried to keep myself from coming too quickly because I wanted to savor it.

Jennifer was moaning and saying things in a language my recognition software couldn’t pick up. Like she was speaking in tongues. The HOLY GHOST of my dick in her ass.

Then Anissa burst out a stall, butt-naked, and started to lick my asshole.