Adventures In Evil Zombieland 2038 – Episode 2 – Bankster Confrontation

The tragic comedy of our anarchist hero stuck in Evil Zombieland continues.

So you might remember that in the last episode of what I call “my life”, I had my water shut off cuz I went over my monthly limit and when I complained to the water department, they told me to take a hike.  Literally.  To the bank, to get a loan, so I could afford to bribe them to give me extra water.  Oh, but my need for Yudollrubpounds, 2038’s global currency standard, doesn’t stop there.  I’ve managed to rack up more fines for political incorrectness than my meager earnings can handle.    

So now here I am getting ready to head out to Banksters “R” Us to try and and get a loan at shark-rate interest.  You might be wondering about the name of the bank.  Well, let’s just say that in 2038, the powers-that-shouldn’t-be are so huberis-filled that they don’t even try to hide anymore.  Bankster is a perfectly normal term.

I’m stretching and looking out of one of my two windows in my tiny “eco-friendly” apartment.  I’m looking at the freshly chemtrailed sky that our benevolent scientific dictatorship has so carefully and courteously provided for us today.  Looks like rain.

I’m out of transportation credits, and cars are outlawed, so now I’m walking the 3 miles to my nearest Banksters “R” Us branch.  Couldn’t find my umbrella, so I’m getting drenched.  I know what you’re thinking.  Isn’t there something better than umbrellas in the year 2038? Dare to dream, but no.  The zombies are veering away from me a bit, one of the perks of having a low social credit score, I guess.  Less zombies to deal with.

So now I’m at the giant, towering, gleaming neon monstrosity known as Banksters “R” Us. I walk in with my faithful government mandated drone hovering just above me, as always.  I walk up to the humanoid robot receptionist.    

“I’m here to see about a loan at shark-rate interest.”

The robot scans my eyes coldly, then gives a paltry excuse with a bemused smile, “Certainly, there will be someone with you shortly.  I must say, though, that your odds of actually getting a loan, due to your low social credit score, are very slim.”

Say what you want about robots, at least they’re honest.    

After an eternal hour wait, I finally get summoned to a low-level bankster desk.  A woman with bee-hive hair gives me some fake cheer across her lobster-like face and invites me to have a seat.

“Oh my, you’re soaking wet.”

“Thanks, I hadn’t noticed.”

“Why didn’t you opt for an online loan application?”

“Because I like to still have face-to-face meetings with people sometimes, just to remind myself that I’m human.”

She takes a deep breath, “Hmm, and why didn’t you take an autonomous transport to stay clear of the rain?”

“Because I’m out of credits.  I probably would’ve stayed dry today if some psychopathic humans hadn’t altered the environment in a vain attempt to control the weather.” 

My creepy drone explains dryly, “You will be fined 2 credits for insulting the benevolent ruling class.”

The loan shark shakes her head disapprovingly, “Well, now, I can see why you have such a low credit score.”

The mind-controlled bankster tool puts on her augmented reality glasses, so I assume she’s scanning my profile.  She shakes her lobster-skull and moans, “Oh, my, I’m afraid you won’t qualify.”

I know why, but just to make sure, “Why is that?”

Her puffy, rosy cheeks start flapping with laughter, “Well, for starters, your social credit score is one of the lowest I’ve ever seen.  You really need to watch your mouth!”

“I just call it like it is.  Without freedom of speech, there can be no freedom.”

A chilled collective gasp fills the room.  Zombies mouths gape open.  Robots heads turn sideways out of confusion.    

A zombie at the next desk over yells, “He said the F word!”

My drone fines me 10 credits.

My would-be loan shark says in a low tone, “Perhaps you should seek some professional help.  Have you thought of seeing a state psychologist?”

I grit my teeth, “Oh, you mean a mind-controlled, extortion funded tool of the occultocratic ruling class? One that will steal money from me that I don’t have just to prescribe some overpriced, mind-destroying drugs? The drugs made by the corporations owned by the occult ruling class themselves? Should I go do that? Oh, wait, I don’t have the money because you won’t give me a loan!”

My drone fines me 20 credits.

Lobster-face turns a shade brighter, “Oh, now, don’t blame me for your problems.  I just work here.  You’re  a rabble-rousing ragamuffin, if ya ask me.  Boy, you do have anger management issues!”

I fume, “And you have reality issues!”

I rise defiantly and storm out of the gaudy bankster monstrosity.  I run across the street and get stopped by a six-armed robot cop.  One of the unforgiving arms holds me in place as it coldly scans my eyes.  “Citizen, you engaged in the prohibited act of jaywalking.  This puts you over the monthly violation limit.  You will now be put into a 24-hour rehabilitation facility.”

I shout, “Oh, you mean you’re going to throw me in a cage against my will?! You mean you’re violating my natural right to travel? You’re violating my right to use my own cognitive abilities and volition to decide when is best to cross a street? You mean you’re contributing to cybernetic hell on earth?”

The robot responds like ice, “Your case will be reviewed by benevolent scientific authorities to see if a state psychologist will be permanently assigned to you after your 24-hour rehabilitation.” 

So now I’m sitting in a musty dungeon and pondering how the human race got to this point.  Why didn’t more people have the backbone to say “NO”! Why didn’t more people resist? Why didn’t they speak out?   Why didn't they take right action?

Just as I’m about to drift off to some much needed slumber, a creepy, giant worm-like robot slithers its way up to my cage.  “Citizen, it is time for your contribution to the green power grid.  Please follow me.”

My cage opens and I follow the electro-worm.  As we walk down a seemingly never-ending corridor, it gets brighter and brighter, almost to the point of being unbearable.  Monolithic metal doors slide open, my eyes get scanned, and I follow the metallic worm of slavery into a vast expanse of methodically humming machines.    

And what is making those power-producing machines go? Caged humans, just like me, running on treadmills.    

My temporary worm slave-driver informs me, “You are assigned to treadmill 322-Z.  You will run for 3 hours, taking a break every 20 minutes.”

It slithers away and I jump on the treadmill.  After about 2 minutes, I feel like I’m gonna keel over.  I turn to the guy next to me, “What are you in for?”

The middle aged, panting mustache of a man huffs and puffs, “They told me I was having too much human copulation, and not using my sexbot enough.”

I grimace.  “That’s too bad.  I wish mine were so simple.”

He looks in my eyes to read my social credit score, “Wow! That’s the lowest I’ve ever seen! You do have problems!”

I fake smile, “Thanks for noticing.”

He continues nervously, “Actually, I think I’ll request a move away from you on my next break.  I shouldn’t be talking to you.  Who knows how that could effect me, ya know?”

“Yeah, I wouldn’t want you to get punished for freedom of association or anything.”

He gasps.  “You said the F word!” Sirens go off.  Mustache-man runs away.  I get assigned an extra hour of treadmill-slavery for my “violation”.    

That’s it for this dystopic adventure.  See ya next time from Evil Zombieland.  Oh yeah, and defend your rights so this doesn’t happen to you in the future.    

Thanks for your time and attention!

Top image is from gearmoose.com