User:EmulsifiedExcuse/Hungry fantasy
Title: Hackstory Abbreviation: Hs Description: Textual noise and parody of an animation ASV: (85,-8) (Affect-Scintillation Vector) Category: <s>Stream-of-consciousness</s> Relapse References: 1. An article on Deletionpedia 2. Bad poems I read in the newspaper 3. The original
Wtf? composter is not a word, , feel free!
Landscapes of Logorrhea[edit | edit source]
Let's start our story with rain. Rain is something simple, just running an economy-grey brush over the tired cityscape.
Medical affixes were raining from the machine, from the blank sky which someone likely forgot to paint. Careful, having the wrong combination of words in your hair could bring a pernicious disease. I was heading to the "Not All Socialization Has To Happen In The Workplace" club which I'm a member of, when the first lightning struck pointless on the pigeon-poop-coated bronze statue a yard from me, which likely protected me from an irrelevant death, for which I called the historical figure on the pedestal and thanked him, a decision I sort of regret afterwards, because his name had several curious letters and I was unsure if I pronounced it right...
Where were we? Oh, I found a bus in the street (of course you need to find them manually) and hopped on. The bus had a volatile disposition and shook me off, leaving me clinging to the passing time in the traffic. Time was the last determinable thing I knew, just leaking down my legs in a lexicon inclusive. To kill this only constant, I decided to go to work.
To Relax, Engage with the Feed[edit | edit source]
In the half-flooded subway station I sold my heart for a ticket and an imitation employee ID, as my heart didn't work well in the low-baro anyway.
I got back in the main cubic hall. The summer sun was strapping a flock of light to the COVID-testing gargoyles. A burette of people were sinking and floating in the elevator shafts.
I calmed down a little. No matter what raged outside, I was safe in here. Work was rewarding. Every client I dealt with has been polite and reasonable. I have learnt a wide range of new tech. I literally did knew it all.
Yet when the clock struck coffee and lunch break descends on the quiet office, a sense of dread would fill my heart. The stress, or str's as it is called for the taboo around this term, was starting to creep up on me. In response, I put on my AirHeads and dived into ever more self-paced training, to rule over this weakness with personal growth. The fluorescent lights abuzz; the air-conditioning winds fair; and all around the loudspeakers have spoken.
Boom, Bloom, Like Vriesea.
– Our heavy corporate slogan hung low in our collective necks.
For a Human Operator, Press 1[edit | edit source]
A generic sense of unrest shrouded the buildings, fairly lazy and spread-out like dumplings in a soup. Of course, I was the only one who didn't know what was happening. To find out what was wrong, I struck a casual conversation with customer service.
Good morning, is this the Art-of-the-State Product Dept?
Callee 0x3f3f Judy, listening to you.
Did something go awry when I was away?
All hell broke loosening of the bowels. A fundraiser is to be organized within three days to raise money to be melted and remolded into a plug.
Silence. Spent cows lay by the street like deflated balloons.
Apart from stopping the loose stool, our client prefers a neat little pyramid of gold bars, deadline by yesterday.
I heard face powder fell like snow. Judy must be making a face at the receiver.
Fed up... too strs'd. Fortunately it's not my circus this time. I only have a report left so I'll be going to a club meetup.
Bye. You are well fed. She chuckled and hung up.
And Drink Till This Plague Leaves[edit | edit source]
At Vriesea, everyone stood the same ground, and below that was a gym. From the visitor center, it was hard to believe that a different world existed 5+1 feet under. Manufactured modernist paintings float in the air, splattered across the corridors, accompanied with peculiar invocations: And in the manager's dungeon clients came and go, talking of biz-hyperbole. And if you see the electronic clocks displaying invalid time, stay away.
Today the gym was bloated beyond its normal boundaries and clogged nearby passageways. When I approached the fattened doors a screen gagged, spitting static all over me. Not the most friendly gesture, but it seemed I had to cross it. With my newfound superpowers.
Folk belief has it that someone who is hit by lightning and survives gains the power to control the bolts. Now giant holes punched in the mythology system ensured this wouldn't happen, because the city didn't want to leave those transmission towers idle. Nobody knows what people will do to the towers if the power is turned off.
Great, my electric field has caused my employee ID to malfunction. Whatever, those doors heal over time. I kicked open a Staff Only passage that led deeper into the complex.
Seriously, what sort of club meets in a basement?
If you go deep enough down those stairs, people float there, sequestered by the viscous air. No, the entire underground complex is well-understood. There are 3D renders for each and every section, and GPS service in every corner. How about a guided tour?
Who's talking to me?
A tramp was leaning over on the wall in the stairwell. He made no attempt to prove if he was alive.
The elevators sang, a hustling steel-on-steel battlecry.
Fake Bird[edit | edit source]
She© combed her followers up, the best car windowpanes come done breast. The green problem is the color. Two hues, differently hanged movie-goers over the blende be outward - Horizon a G° gone highway crowdfactory desert.