Screaming lechers grabbed at me from the sides while muzzak bescreached my ears from above. I had been wandering westward for some time now and the mall sirens kept yelling for me to buy

buy

buy and eventually the cacophony just fell to the background. It was with childlike joy I glanced upon the world - a paper-cup of Sprite with a straw shoved into it in my hand. Purchased from the pizza and donair shop not an hour earlier, my proof of consumerism. The label affixed with which they could hope perhaps more money might fall from my wallet.

So it was in this state that I happened upon shop upon shop upon shop staring at the sore-ridden venom spit forth by the fat-boiling witches inside. I strove forth because the hall did end, eventually. The womb from which it had all sprung.

Nothing heard made sense to me, enveloped into the digital clicks and whistles that made it all seem high tech. Merely disguising the fact that nothing made any sort of sense when listened to for longer than a soundbite. The Christmas jingles mated with Money M hyphen DigiPopBand a few seasons ago and all we've been hearing since is their bastardized offspring. But it all faded by the wayside once I returned to the Womb, proof-of-consumerism still in hand.

As though I could take out all my problems by hanging it on Sprite T M and pretending to be a solder-boy (no patent pending merely a wishful dream).

The hall had ended itself and all that was left was this store. So like it or no this was the end of the trail. The man said they didn't have my shows in wide-screen format, and those words rattled around as I took my wares down the escalator. I stood aimlessly for a while in a manner only possible in a place of commerce. The way words spoken aloud would be rantings but put to pen make a tale (and the coffee is 5/7 spent so get on with it). I turned and stepped and there I saw. Before me was a counter with five holiday tired patrons plugged into it's cerebral cortex. This was what laid at the heart.

Some beast feeding upon the shoppers five at a time. I now know it to be called a listening booth, reprogramming the zombies to accurately reflect our behavior and properly breed in the outside world. Right there was the heart of it all. And like any gestating organism it has no thoughts or taboos as to which of it's internal organs you happen upon. It's only thought how to destroy competing memes over the next few generations so in the end only the consumerism feeding frenzy will prevail.

I couldn't stomach it, and these thoughts mostly came later. The moment only lasting briefly. Less than a second.

In my warrior guise I turned to my trusty Arab stereotype lieutenant and we swiftly left the beast. Time to record it all on pad with a now spent coffee framed to the upper right hand side. My jungle hat quietly resting on the chair beside me. The Arab evaporating back to whatever anonymous jungle he came from and me caching in my experiential chips for java and cash and a large box case of amnesia.

The revelation is too deep. What are any of us to do but sit relax and trust in the mother creature to oversee our new destiny. If we suck from her nipple, I'm sure it will all make sense.