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 up and I scream with all my lungs:
>BLACK LIVES MATTER!
Before I feel my throat give way, a bolt of lightning passes through me. A brain chip, activated, creates a series of convulsing spasms across my body. Waves upon waves of eddying orgastic-ecstatic bliss flows like the honeyed wine of the gods throughout my capillaries. My central nervous system, rejuvenated and energised, throbs and sizzles with pleasure. But as I begin to stand, wobbling and swaying like a drunkard, I feel my legs buckle. I topple over in a shivering ball of post-coital rawness. Between my legs, where a cock should have been, my little modified clitordick-mangina dribbles what spermless fluid remains inside my mangled gonads. It seeps partly into my work clothes, a sign that I have been paid for my first 10 hours of work before my pleasure break.
>Thank you, Saint George... You gave me so many orgasms... first from the OnlyFans girls whose BLM charities I donated to... and now... with your consciousness living on in completely black orgasm chips funded by the cyborg porn king, Greg Lansky, founder of BLACKED DOT COM.
The holograph watches me knowingly, cracks a smile, and booms:
>That's right, white boy. Go back to work, now.