Chapter 39: Riots at the Anal Warm Exchange

The futures index on the large anal temperature screen was fluctuating violently with the amount of prostate fluid being produced by the man as his rectum was inserted into the seventh thermometer.

"37.8 degrees! Short the bladder futures!" The trader hissed into the anal mirror display, his tie woven from a vas deferens, oozing yellowish pheromones of fear with each shouted order.

Rule #205: All body temperature data must be uploaded in real time to the cloud of doom.Luna's mechanical gloves, slick with lubricant, are transforming the rioters' anuses into living data interfaces. Hanging from the Exchange's dome are three thousand rectal-converted thermostats, each linked to the futures price of a different organ - when the upside-down rioter farts, the methane concentration leads directly to a meltdown in the "intestinal tranquility index".

"I'll pledge the sphincter contraction frequency..." The riot leader's anus spewed bloody foam, "... In exchange for three minutes of free breathing privileges..."

His voice was cut off by the sudden insertion of a quantum thermometer, and Luna watched the stream of data explode on the holographic screen - the man's anal temperature profile was perfectly synchronized with the security footage from the convenience store's cooler, each temperature spike corresponding to a moment of abuse from her childhood when she'd been locked in the cooler. Even deadlier were the data watermarks, showing that these temperature records had been made into an augmented-reality tutorial for the Obedience Training Manual by HQ.

"Rule 206 addendum!" She hooked up the rioter's intestines to the exchange terminal, "All biological data must be subject to a breath tax."

The floor of the exchange suddenly oozed slime. Those who thought it was lubricant quickly realized the truth - it was "panic serum" extracted from the rioters' bone marrow, and was being injected into everyone through the underfloor heating system. The traders' pupils began to dilate uncontrollably, the anal temperature data went haywire, and the K-chart on the big screen distorted into a 3D model of Jax's genitals.

"Surprised sister?" Jax's holographic projection burrowed out of the thermostat, "For every riot you suppress, help me calibrate the control algorithms..." His fingers traced the festering anuses of the rioters, "... These lovely assholes are some of the best biosensors in HQ."

The riot escalated as the anal temperatures collectively spiraled out of control.

When the first trader died from a burst rectum, pieces of his sphincter formed barcodes in the air. A scan reveals it's the latest promotional code from the convenience store's headquarters - enter the rioter's DNA to redeem a "pain discount coupon" Luna's cybernetic eye penetrates the haze of flesh and blood to reveal all the thermostats are being transfused in reverse, converting the rioter's vitals into energy for the temperature-control system in the president's office.

"Section 207!" She shoved the Riot Leader into the thermostat converted into a microwave, "All bio-resistors must be carbonized on site."

Suddenly, the entire exchange began to squirm. Joysticks wrapped by small intestines protruded from the walls, and the floor cracked open to reveal a viscous pool of stomach acid trading. The rioters were suspended upside down by mechanical tentacles and plunged into the pool, their anuses forced to gulp blood-laced data packets.Luna's scanners revealed that each packet contained a recording of her clone's neural impulses being compiled into encrypted chapters of the Anal Warming Bible.

Moonlight is refracted by stomach acid vapors, and Luna sees her entire life in the distorted light. Every significant moment is labeled with anal temperature data: 38.2 degrees when violated by Cole, 39.4 degrees during fratricide, and even the anger of the moment shows 37.6 degrees-all uploaded in real time to the president's smart toilet.

"Dear daughter..." The smart toilet suddenly plays the president's voice, "... Your sphincter is more business savvy than I thought."

As the last of the rioters are digested into a data stream, Luna feels a chip at the bottom of the pool of slime. A UV scan revealed it was a handwritten note from her father, "Every drop of anal blood is a gold mine." Suddenly, all the thermostats burst open and thousands of temperature-sensing bees flew out - they burrowed into the passerby's anus and etched biodata directly into the rectal lining.

"Rule 208!" Luna shoves the EMP bomb into the president's voice toilet, "When the anus becomes the data interface, turn the feces into an encrypted bullet."

The blast of air toppled the roof of the Exchange, sending flying anal temperature chips through the air to form the face of her mother. Her lips open and close, spitting out not last words but the latest exchange rule: "All vital signs must be transmitted encrypted with rectal mucus."

In the ruins in the distance, a new anal temperature clinic lights up with neon advertisements. The clones solicit customers in transparent protective suits, and an electronic screen scrolls promotional messages:

"Grand Opening Sale! Pledge anal contraction power in exchange for images of Luna's childhood abuse!"