The Triple M, ohhhhh the Triple M. What to farking do about the Triple M, that pain in the ass Manic Monday Mayhem he had signed himself up for supposedly voluntarily but it was on no uncertain terms from the Credit of Self department that his ego presence just wasn’t where it needed to be, he wasn’t focusing enough on his inner character and he needed to get it out there for the masses to see just like everyone else did as a matter of course.
Link to part 1
Those whores, those autocratic little whores that were the fibrous stroma of the all seeing eye of Panopticon Productions Ltd, from the tubes they spewed, the executive and the cred-worthy, bursting forth on the lower floors to upper, upper and ever upper, straight up to their offices to manage the flow of product to customers throughout the Expanse and beyond to the various and sundry dwellings within the Capillaries. Silly questions were never asked, silly answers never given, all was movement and a stoppage would be registered as a clot and dealt with via omnitrexing scalpel. Scalpels of society, scalpels of financial status. And all the surgeons were locked up tight in offices Paul would never see, could never hope to see this late in his game. But like the pressure of bowels seeking release, he knew they were there, waiting for him to make one more critical mistake.