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.
The floor was covered with a foamy, pale fluid, warehouse robots mauled the remaining merchandise, and managers prepared the flame throwers.
The multihued root system spread throughout the city, cracking the foundations and throbbing with delight.
The rogue gardeners planted everywhere, rooftops, golf courses, hoods of cars. They wore suits of gardenias and zucchinis.
The long barren road was illuminated by a series of flickering LEDs, activated only by citizens who had taken The Oath.
At the boundaries of the estate were never-ending oil fires. Children danced around them, sacrificing toys and pets to their god.
Several successive bumps dislodged the frightened proto-mass from the top left corner of the transport vehicle.
Unwrapping the Powrbar carefully, he didn’t find one of the coveted ruby tickets, but instead a court summons.
Lean and strung out on Red Empathy, the alien lyricist flopped down on the flea infested couch.
Each capsule was ejected from the machine with an oily sheen.