concept art writing prompt

from way back when

Olive tensed his hands around the moto-stool grips and looked eagerly to his left and right, taking in the palpable sense of anticipation rising off the assembled orphans. Only the day before, his poverty palace had won the yearly lottery, and so all the orphans living in public housing module D-MI5483 were whisked away to the upper city, where they would have the honor of being first in line for the sacred rite of Black Friday.

They couldn’t actually buy anything, of course, since they were orphans and orphans are poor as shit, but their desire would be fed, via fiber optic-empathy line, directly into the facescreens of the adult ideology enforcers working down below, so that they would know exactly which prizes to battle for in the Holiday Present Dome that occurred every Christmas Eve. In the month preceding the Present Dome the bookies would usually tally a list of the most desired presents, because when the bloodshed started it was usually good to have an idea of what you would and would not die and/or kill for.

After what seemed like an eternity, a bright red orb appear on the massive glass doors. It blinked, changed to yellow, and blinked once more before turning green. The entire mass of orphans seated upon their moto-stools lurched forward, but the movement abruptly halted, and Olive could hear screams echoing back. As always, a few of those in front were not fast enough off the line, and so it took a moment for those behind them to press their moto-stools up and over the broken bodies. By the time Olive reached the entrance most of them had been ground down to mush, although an arm or a few fingers could be seen sticking out of the dark red pulp.

Once inside the mall, however, the floor opened up, and he was free to twist the moto-stool grip all the way back, feeling the cool rush of the conditioned chemical haze wash over him: as he passed by the pretzel shop, his nose was greeted by the smooth yet tangy aroma of cinnamon, butter, and human sex pheromones; the knife store gave off the heady mix of blood and the tears of minorities; but finally, Olive found his favorite store, and basked in the warm scent of excrement and terror emanating from the row upon row of sharpened metal cages, each containing a small animal whose body weight forced its flesh into the razor wires.

Oh the joy of the pet shop! Most of the other orphans had rushed to see the newest technobaubles and electro-gizmonics, gawking over the fully-functional rape victim dolls or My Lil’ Genocide playsets, but for Olive, true happiness came from the old-fashioned pleasure of watching animals suffer. He drove his moto-stool back and forth in front the pet shop for the rest of the day, touching himself all the while, and only left when security finally came to reclaim the moto-stool. They shot Olive with a tranquilizer and threw him over the railing, and it was a whole minute and a half before his body exploded onto the spires of the poverty kingdom below.

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