I wanted to buy you flowers, but neither of us could keep them alive.

"I demand to see a lawyer!" Someone screamed. Pandemonium descended on the mortal plane, but hell sent its most pathetic demons.

"Hmm? You and with what funds, Craig? You lived your life as a minimum wage fry cook, only to have spent every penny simping for Instagram thots." The agent bellowed, then skillfully evaded a tackling from three obese linebackers. The three sailed on, blasting a crater in the screen behind with their enormous egg-shaped frames that could've taken out the dinosaurs.

That fellow, Craig, had not been paying attention. He had been on Glitch.tv, looking up titty streamers the whole time, but to be fair, so was half the audience. He had one hand scrolling his ten-year-old dirty Ephone and the other hand inside his battered shorts. He had been "secretly" wanking this whole time. Wait, I know him! I've seen him before somewhere...

He worked at the local McRondalds. The one on Fifth street never closed and served unwillingly as a homeless shelter. The service was terrible, no question and the employees were all wankers, but not literally. Now they are. Oh god, why did that joint have such musky and salty food?

I threw up in my mouth a little.

Meanwhile, the rest of us roared and thrashed like caged chimpanzees, looking for an exit from the abandoned stadium. We trampled over each other and assimilated as a rolling blob of humanity.

"Stop fucking bothering," the agent sighed, and red and yellow lasers pierced the darkness. Camouflaged soldiers ambushed us in splendid forest green tactical gear and modern weaponry, training the red dot of their assault rifles on our heads.

"Easy, sir." I raised my arms.

"I also microchipped you all, and in the case of that squeaker earlier, I microchipped him twice." The agent paced leisurely up and down the stage. Finally, he turned off the lecture screen and placed both hands on the lectern.

"Alright, patriots, send these losers to their dungeons and dragons" like that, the agent vanished into thin air, like a hologram.

It took a while. The soldiers painstakingly rounded us up and sent us down a tunnel. Illuminated by a faint blue floor light, thousands upon thousands of immersion pods stood like an alien's lair.

"Get in." The soldiers nudged us in with their guns.

As the various tubes entered my body, the one that hurt the most was the catheter, followed by the anal catheter. The needles attached to our nerves weren't so bad. Next, the eyeball trackers sucked on our eyeballs, drying them quickly. Last, the machine forced down a throat tube, closing the metal lid.

"Loading... Loading..." I was in agony. The machine spent what felt like 30 years booting up. What is this early 2000s-ass technology?

Finally, the anesthetic kicked in.