There they are. The slaves. Wandering around the shopping mall, intoxicated by the illusion of freedom. Worthless pieces of paper, they carry. Or worthless pieces of plastic upon which an arbitrary number has been assigned, based upon their judged degree of slave productivity.
Fiercely they search for something worthless to acquire, something that will make them feel free, something they can pretend to own, something that will amuse them enough to keep the slave shackle invisible, keep the shackle from chafing their conscious minds.
Carefully they calculate: Have they been allowed to accumulate enough worthless pieces of paper to acquire the arbitrarily valued worthless items they have been brainwashed to pathologically covet?
They make their selection, walking over to directly interact with on-duty slaves. The irony is lost on them, as they transfer their acquired slave shackle, to a fellow shackled slave.
The Alien Eye watches, amused and disgusted, hoping for some gal shoeplay.
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