A while back, the Inquisitor ran a story about how we are all going to be chipped, sooner or later. Well, for me it turned out to be sooner.
That's why I haven't posted for a while. I thought I was depressed. I now realise I'm afraid.
It happened a few weeks ago. A normal Tuesday, or so I thought. Got to work slightly late, looking forward to another day of humiliation, defeat and futility. And I found the office deserted. It wasn't lunchtime, or anywhere within two hours of lunchtime, so I knew something was up.
We have this receptionist who specializes in making my life hell. She's a vicious, baying-for-blood bull-dyke with all the charm of a wounded doberman on PCP. She's called Petal. Anyway, after verbally savaging me for a while, she eventually said I was expected in the meetings room. I didn't know we had a meetings room. She seemed to relish the prospect of me entering a door I had never seen before.
They were all in there, the whole staff of the Inquisitor, rubbing their arms. It wasn't what I was expecting - just an empty office littered with the detritus of whatever failed business had last fled owing back rent. The team was in one corner looking even more morose than normal for this early in the morning. In the other corner was a nurse standing by a table.
She gave me a look. I shudder still when I think of it. Nurse Ratched would have walked in fear of this woman.
Maybe that's why the rest of my experience in that room is such a blur. I remember her checking my name against the computer. Selecting a chip the side of a grain of rice and putting it in a small gun-like device. And then firing it into my arm. "Welcome to the American Century, big boy," she said. It didn't sound welcoming.
Now, every time I enter or leave the building something beeps. Yesterday, Petal took great delight in showing the log on her computer screen that listed the precise time and date I entered and left each room in the building, including the restroom. I spend longer in there than I thought. You can imagine what Petal made of that.
I swear I can feel the little RFID chip in my arm like it's some kind of infection. Everywhere I go I feel like I'm broadcasting something. I don't know what, but it makes me feel guilty. It's like I've been branded the way criminals once were. Like I've been reduced to a number, a serial number to be processed.
This morning I went into Starbucks and something beeped.