Street Meat
“Oi! Chicken.” Shruk!
“Oi! Lamb.” Shruk!
“Oi! Beef.” Shruk!
The line moved fast. Each customer queued up, shouted their
order and slid their credit cards through the payment slot. Five minutes later the
Tyson.2’s arm thrust out of the autocart service window with the kebobs ready
for each patron. It was efficient, perfect and most importantly: cheap. All of
the food carts had followed the restaurant automation trend that had in turn
followed the robotics revolution over the last decade after Farage’s Folley.
The one piece that couldn’t be automated was trash. Legally.
Sanitation careers were one of the government’s
preserved job types saved for people to make their career. Winston stood
outside of the autocart waiting for customers to throw their skewers and
napkins onto the ground. Even though the trash bin was five meters away, customers
preferred to discard their debris on the pavement. The emergence of mass-sloth
was another unexpected consequence of a fully automated society.
“Oi!, Chicken.” Shruk!
Winston twisted his spine. The vertebrae popped. His back
ached every day from bending over for the trash. Despite the misery of his job,
he kept at it. One day he would afford his own Tyson.2. Never on his trashman’s
wage, but through a bigger plot he’d been hatching since he’d the Department of
Livelihoods been assigned to serve the autocart.
“Oi! Lamb.” Shruk!
Like he had every day for the last month, Winston feigned
dropping one of the skewers so it rolled under the cart. Once under, he’d stab
the break line just once. At the end of his shift he’d lay down, out of sight
of the driving system’s cameras, and hope for a mistake. Maybe today he’d have
his legs run over. Maybe today he’d earn his workers comp and a better future.
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