There was no time left in the afternoon, it had been gloriously wasted on nostalgic revenge and consumption of Red Empathy.
The robot bartender pronounced her name incorrectly, it poured the beer over the side of the table, it charged her for a Super Deluxe. The bar was immensely popular.
“Twenty years from now you won’t recognize it, the reservoir will be bubbling, overflowing with new fluids,” he said.
The bus pulled up and the clones exited. Had there been some mistake? They were ugly, all of them, not a single one attractive enough for the Dome.
One hundred years later his perfectly executed manifesto on Brutalist architecture was discovered in the corner of an abandoned, concrete stairwell.
“When you subvert the divine system you pollute the mark, when you pollute the mark you risk all of our commerce,” she said while tying the cherry stem into a knot with her tongue.
The Twins had the top hundred floors to themselves, several of which were devoted to pure replication. Warty pig-men came and went.
The city was covered with a gray haze produced by fashionable machines worn by most of the citizens. Giving them up was unthinkable.
The lottery winner received a complete tour. “Did you know the abattoir is powered entirely by sunlight?”
As fires spread across the world citizens complained that Red Empathy was no longer effective. However, orders doubled and Division Thirteen made trillions.
The Twins started Division Thirteen as a reaction to sloppy human culture, replacing every aspect with something perfectly digestible.
The award winning complex, an interlocking series of firetrap buildings, was designed expressly for the shame and discomfort of its citizens.
Bike gangs fought each other on bridges made of information, occasional explosions of entropy alerted the authorities.
The voice on the radio was impossible, and the instructions were ludicrous. However, there was no choice but to obey.
At the end of the play the contents of your pockets MUST be emptied into the receptacle.