THIS IS NOT A GLITCH IN CAPITALISM, BUT A MONSTROUS OUTGROWTH.

They act like the issue of money is secondary to the existence of the miracle line -- it's not. This is the issue itself.

A slender finger slips into the black curls of a phone cord and twirls them around itself... suddenly it pulls, and your breath cuts short.

Rapturous fantasies of masturbatory death overtake them.

Behind the jokes, there's a seriousness -- it's their one true pleasure in life.

Your controller's razor-edged voice comes to you, cold light from an infinitely distant star.

The john is always the enemy. She may have made him think they are friends, but they are not.

You can believe him or not, but the other pilots do, and they are eating their hearts out.

Toying with them like a cat with its prey. Now he breaks off another leg and watches the thing limp.

Something's not right here. He's not exactly lying, but... nor is he telling the truth.

Because he's more present than the other two, and capable of manipulation.

YOU WILL NOT BE THE VEHICLE FOR THE SPREAD OF TECHNOFASCIST PROPAGANDA TO IMPRESSIONABLE YOUNG MINDS.

Nothing like 'kid's stuff' to really hammer home your obsolescence.

YOU WILL NOT BE THE VEHICLE FOR THE SPREAD OF TECHNO-FASCIST PROPAGANDA TO IMPRESSIONABLE YOUNG MINDS.

He's getting worked up again. This group has no inhibitions surrounding public arousal.

A permutative bestiary unfolds...

Subtle and leering -- for the first time you see his true smile.

Anglerfish smile. Predatory. Testing. Infinitely patient.

A trained operant, played like a child's instrument by a depraved old man.

The old man's normally yellow skin blooms an almost purple-shade of red.

He's experiencing what men like him fear most: Humiliation at the hands of a woman.

A STATE-SPONSORED KILLING MACHINE.

It'd be hard to focus, what with all those switches and dials to play with -- but you could manage to picture it.

Saturation twists the sound output on the receiver, the signal more than the electronics can bear.

The analog joy of greased levers actioning release mechanisms, sixty pound warheads sliding out into the sky with a whisper like a sword unsheathing.

Meanwhile his companions begin to squirm.

Slavering, impotently aroused, hyena-attentions.

More than a courtesy, he is establishing hierarchies. You and him -- human. His companions -- sub-human.

Neither is he. It's in the accent -- vowels musicalised, R's straining not to trill.

Slavering, impotently aroused, hyena-attentions.

The wind rustles the bushes nearby as if hushing those who might speak.

Two-hundred chisels working in rhythm. Rock chips gather on the masons' eyelashes; they blink, dust falls, and slowly a face blinks back in the hardstone opposite them.

It wishes to be left alone, but can see the devious intention in your eyes.

It's just a little plastic dolphin. There's no way you're actually getting satisfaction from this.

A man in a hardhat and blue vest finishes the last twist of his screwdriver and gets up from where he's knelt, knees-down, on the pavement. His fingers brush the dolphin on the way up -- for luck.

For a second, you could swear you hear the whistle and chirp of a real dolphin.

The dolphin is inside your head. Pressing its blubber against your skull.

The last time you spoke was the day your network blew. You never called her back like you said you would.

Should probably start apologising right now.

A card would have been a good start. One reading 'Condolences We Met'.

Never forgotten. Fear. Invader. Defend turf.

YOU WILL APPEAR TO HER AS A VISION, A WARD TO CAPITAL'S ENCHANTMENT. THE PARTY CALLS ONCE MORE. YOU ARE SAVED.

A man and a woman, comfortable and understated -- a quiet life lived on a well-beaten track.

Just explain how sorry you are, find some common ground. She might even thank you for her recent career success.

Looks like a hearing aid, or cochlear implant.

SUBJUGATE THE DIPLOMATIC ENVOY.

The last time you spoke was the day your network blew. You definitely called her back like you said you would.

It's true -- no one is looking at him. Or you. For now, at least.

Oh no. Here we go.

Reality itself is the text, and you the dyslexic third-grader. It lies before you, open for perusal, and yet utterly impenetrable.

Checks