Taliban Telemarketer

by Kim Cancer

Copyright© 2019 by Kim Cancer

Science Fiction Sex Story: A dystopian look into a future of neural links, legalized murder, mass shootings, rampages, hand machines, telemarketing, cults, apathy; in this new world, the greatest war is the War Against Boredom.

Caution: This Science Fiction Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Mult   Magic   NonConsensual   Rape   Romantic   Heterosexual   Shemale   Fiction   Crime   Historical   Horror   Humor   Vignettes   War   Workplace   Science Fiction   Alternate History   Time Travel   Paranormal   Incest   Aunt   Torture   Anal Sex   Masturbation   Amputee   Politics   Prostitution   .

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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 ASSASSINATION AVERTED, WOULD-BE MUCKER CAPTURED!”

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 SPAZDAQ.

(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?

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, PROTEX!

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 waiting for? DO YOU WANT TO DIE? NO, OBVIOUSLY YOU DON’T! BUY YOUR NEW PROTEX 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!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

THE SOUNDTRACK OF SOUTH FLORIDAAAAAAAA!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

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 STAR/STREAM STAR.

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.

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