hmmm i should write a surreal post-cyberpunk kafkaesque dystopia in which the concept of america is bought by Hell™ which is an exouniversal private company because of course it is

Daily life becomes terrifying neon branded simulacra shitshow in which potentially anything could be real. Your job is destroying empty cardboard boxes with your fists but only the orange-red boxes not the yellow-red boxes. Destroying the wrong boxes means you are instead paid in HellScrip™ for the next two weeks or until you file a triple appeal with your archmanager who is an enormous satanic plush dog with a camera in it and no actual sentience.

You live in a shipping container that has been renovated and turned into storage compartments which have been turned into museums which show how people of the 21st century briefly had a minihome craze and you're currently squatting in one of the displays. There's no running water and the beds are made of styrofoam. Your landlord is a guy in a polyester suit with a sawed-off shotgun who showed up one day and who said he was the landlord and he demands a pint of your blood every week.

reality has been overwritten by the ideals of neoliberal capitalism. It's like A Roadside Picnic meets Sorry To Bother You. Gravity doesn't work sometimes and an animatronic ronald reagan is yelling at you about how its morning in america and the big account is due monday. Every few months the economy gets reset due to yottainflation. Brands will dox you for epic clapbacks and send hired assassins to your house. Jean Baudrillard is alive again, he's roaring pissed, and he has power armor.

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