We demand your joy.
Hot steam, a blush, pink-slick dancefloors, bucket grease fingers that clutch slot-machine crank and a hand reaching down. Sweet meats and fever dreams, more and more and more. Rolling on the ground in all the animal blood and loving it.
We do not care.
The hologram copy of the model and the fake, and the gloved hand that builds the countdown clock. Radio noise that cuts through the signal and the regimented decay. The video screens, black hallways, and how it can all go away in the blink of an eye.