I trudge through the Bug Protein Slop factory, thirsty and hungry. But I pass by the cafeteria, where they only serve Bug Protein Slop. Instead, I walk into the domed prayer room, where ululating calls to prayer fill the smoggy, unclean air. The room brightens amidst the pollution; it is adorned with holographic displays of Saint George. The big black face of George looks down at me above the words RACE IS FAKE, RACISM IS REAL; his obsidian eyes search me, as though they can see into my heart of hearts. I lay prostrate upon the floor, on the rug that is made from the chitin of some GM insects. The robotic voice of George echoes throughout, as a pealing of a church bell:
>Which lives matter?
Now, my hands stretch across the floor and I sob. I cry tears of genuine sadness. I remember the years of sadness and pain and trauma that my ancestors caused all POC, especially WOC and gender diverse folx, even though all race is a social construct, despite racism being inherently and intangibly my fault for the colour of my skin: a pallid white like a corpse, or a lilly.
>I said, cracker... Which lives matter?
I sob and sob. In my mind races the images of Derek Chauvin's knee on George Floyd's neck. His exasperated cries that he could not breathe. The madness of the Trump era.
>I said, you jive ass honkeys... Which lives matter?
Before I can gasp another breath, my torso shoots u