you forgot the pain inflicting device implanted in the neck for wrong think
you forgot the pain inflicting device implanted in the neck for wrong think
It's 7:00am, you are sitting at the table with your government-assigned spouse (genetic female, you got lucky) and 8 year old--a Guatemalan orphan. "Eat your Soylent, before it coagulates," you say, watching your child fidget in their chair. The government recently mandated larger dilators, and it has been a struggle getting them up to size in time for the upcoming inspection at their re-education facility (The Mao-Harris-Soros School for Non-Whites). As your attention begins to wander, gazing out the only window in your one-room housing unit, your Google Home comes to life. "THE POD APPROACHES." You grab your facemask and sprint from the table, you know you can't be late for your shift like last time--the social oversight worker has already threatened to replace your spouse with a Puerto Rican penis-person. Walking outside, the sunlight disorients you--the new indoor LEDs hardly provide more than flicker--and you misstep into the street. Just then, the self-driving Tesla Pod™ runs over your foot. It's likely broken, but you know if you go to the ER it could mean 5-6 days in the waiting room.
You get into the pod with a dozen or so others, and take a seat alongside your neighbor Steven. You both worked together at the firm pre-COVID. "Just two more weeks!" he joked, pointing at his mask--the same joke he's said to you each day for the past 9 years.
As you take the 90 minute ride in the Tesla Pod™ to work, you hardly notice the severe pain your foot is in. The CDC had just mandated another vaccine after discovering a new variant, ZZZEX (they had already gone through the alphabet several times over naming them), and the swelling of the injection site on your arm had yet to go down.
You arrive at the firm downtown at 8:47am. Two minutes late.
You're dreading the lashing you'll get from LaQuisha, your boss since the passing of the Reparations Act of 2027. She used to be your assistant, and it will be another 150 years until she is your subordinate again.
You settle in at your table in the open-office space and begin work. Your job is processing refugee and migrant applications and making sure each is approved (your pay is docked 50,000 yuan for each that isn't), and that the new citizens receive their Amazon gift cards and housing assignment.
At 8:30pm it is time to go back to the housing unit. You're exhausted after processing 841 applications--a personal best.
As you look out into the night sky, you see a Blue Origin rocket taking the latest batch of miners to the Moon Colony. You've applied for a spot several times before. Not because you actually want to go to the Colony. But because you know there is at least a 10% chance the rocket will explode on lift off.
It's 7:00am, you are sitting at the table with your government-assigned spouse (genetic female, you got lucky) and 8 year old--a Guatemalan orphan. "Eat your Soylent, before it coagulates," you say, watching your child fidget in their chair. The government recently mandated larger dilators, and it has been a struggle getting them up to size in time for the upcoming inspection at their re-education facility (The Mao-Harris-Soros School for Non-Whites).
As your attention begins to wander, gazing out the only window in your one-room housing unit, your Google Home comes to life. "THE POD APPROACHES." You grab your facemask and sprint from the table, you know you can't be late for your shift like last time--the social oversight worker has already threatened to replace your spouse with a Puerto Rican penis-person. Walking outside, the sunlight disorients you--the new indoor LEDs hardly provide more than flicker--and you misstep into the street. Just then, the self-driving Tesla Pod™ runs over your foot. It's likely broken, but you know if you go to the ER it could mean 5-6 days in the waiting room.
You get into the pod with a dozen or so others, and take a seat alongside your neighbor Steven. You both worked together at the firm pre-COVID. "Just two more weeks!" he joked, pointing at his mask--the same joke he's said to you each day for the past 9 years.
As you take the 90 minute ride in the Tesla Pod™ to work, you hardly notice the severe pain your foot is in. The CDC had just mandated another vaccine after discovering a new variant, ZZZEX (they had already gone through the alphabet several times over naming them), and the swelling of the injection site on your arm had yet to go down.
You arrive at the firm downtown at 8:47am. Two minutes late.
You're dreading the lashing you'll get from LaQuisha, your boss since the passing of the Reparations Act of 2027. She used to be your assistant, and it will be another 150 years until she is your subordinate again.
You settle in at your table in the open-office space and begin work. Your job is processing refugee and migrant applications and making sure each is approved (your pay is docked 50,000 yuan for each that isn't), and that the new citizens receive their Amazon gift cards and housing assignment.
At 8:30pm it is time to go back to the housing unit. You're exhausted after processing 841 applications--a personal best.
As you look out into the night sky, you see a Blue Origin rocket taking the latest batch of miners to the Moon Colony. You've applied for a spot several times before. Not because you actually want to go to the Colony. But because you know there is at least a 10% chance the rocket will explode on lift off.
(post is archived)