The Bidding Zone Analysis

He stared at the ceiling as he made himself cum for the third time, today. He had nothing better to do.

He’d been fed a steady diet of alcohol, cigarettes, caffeine, and cheap food his whole life. He thought of his next meal: gravy, cut potatoes, and synthetic cheese-substance. From reading illegal texts, he knew he was likely malnourished. The wealthy were the only ones who had access to healthful food or unpolluted water. They spent their lives posting instant photos of themselves doing handstand-splits against panoramas of skyscrapers in the Green Zone at sunset while commenting on their ideas of social justice. Often someone like the man would be seen being fucked to death by a horse or mule or bull, as the wealthy cackled and clinked champagne glasses while they watched in their viewing rooms. It’s a meritocracy, we’re told. You need to prove your

Freedom isn’t free.

The man is to report to the Bidding Zone before ten this evening.

The Bidding Zone is crowded with people all lined up in the corrals while they await their turn to be chosen. To be passed over means to be sent back to the Ward without any hope for food or sustenance. To be not chosen meant to go back to the place where strange bugs chewed on your skin, where things deteriorated your person until inexplicably nothing was left and only death awaited.

The fantasy channels showed a world where someone who works hard and is quick-witted will become a success, but the reality was burning trash cans and patches of blotched skin on the faces of people who stared contemptuously at you as you walk to the corner store to spend your last dollar on a slice of synthetic cheese to eat for the first time that week.

The man felt exhausted when he was finally placed on the Bidding Pedestal. A sea of glaring light and blackness assaults the man’s eyes. He can see nothing beyond the