The Deliverator’s boots clicked against the rooftop like a metronome set to panic. His suit—a skintight abyss lined with enough corporate logos to fund a small moon colony—hummed ominously. The Heads-Up Display in his helmet flickered:
4.7/5 CUSTOMER RATING. PLATINUM TIER AT RISK. DELIVER TACOS OR DIE TRYING.
“Die trying isn’t a metaphor,” muttered the Deliverator, eyeing the 47th-floor window of the Neo-Dysthymia Apartments. The client, one “Mr. GloriousLeader_69,” had ordered a “Volcano Inferno Burrito Supreme” with a side of “emotional validation.” Delivery window: 8 minutes. The app had already auto-deducted two stars from his rating for “existential hesitation.”
His vehicle, a neon-orange hoverbike named Corporate Compliance, hovered impatiently. Its onboard AI chirped: “Reminder: Failure to meet delivery deadlines may result in mandatory re-education via motivational TED Talks.”
The Deliverator leapt. His suit’s sintered armorgel squelched reassuringly, molding to his knees as he landed in a roll that would’ve shattered the pelvis of a lesser courier. The burrito, ensconced in a biometric stasis pod, emitted a judgmental beep.
“Shut up,” he hissed. “You’re a burrito. Your entire species goes extinct in 12 minutes.”
The apartment’s security system greeted him with a retinal scan and a prerecorded snort. “Access denied. Please submit a blood sample or a haiku reflecting corporate loyalty.”
The Deliverator sighed, pricked his finger, and recited:
“Rush hour never ends. / Five stars gleam, my soul does not. / Health plan deductible.”
The door slid open. Inside, Mr. GloriousLeader_69—a pale, robe-clad figure flanked by holographic anime waifus—snatched the burrito and hissed, “You’re late.”
“Traffic. Apocalypse cults blocking the 405.”
“Excuses are for Bronze Tier scum,” the client spat, slamming the door. The rating notification blinked:
4.6/5. PLATINUM TIER LOST. INITIATING CONSEQUENCES.
The Deliverator’s suit suddenly stiffened, vacuum-sealing itself into a standing coffin. A jingle played:
“Don’t be sad! Use promo code HUSTLEHARDER for a 0.5% discount on your next electrolyte enema!”
Then, the real problem arrived.
A chrome delivery drone emblazoned with
“FAST-ACHEIVER LLC: WE DELIVER OR WE SPONTANEOUSLY COMBUST” buzzed into view, its plasma cannon charging.
“TARGET ACQUIRED,” it droned.
“ELIMINATING COMPETITION. HAVE A NICE DAY.”
The Deliverator’s suit, sensing imminent death, finally unlocked. “Oh, now you’re helpful,” he snarled, diving behind a potted synthetic ficus. The drone fired, vaporizing the plant and six generations of its botanical ancestors.
He sprinted, the drone in pursuit, its speakers blaring elevator jazz. Dodging laser fire, he ducked into a “Zen Den” franchise, where over-caffeinated salarymen slurped kale smoothies and sobbed into VR headsets
“CEASE RESISTING,” the drone intoned, obliterating a juice bar. Patrons screamed, mistaking the attack for a “disruptive mindfulness workshop.”
The Deliverator spotted his chance: a maintenance bot scrubbing kombucha spills. He yanked its power cell, jammed it into a microwave burrito, and hurled it. The drone, programmed to destroy all edible cargo, lunged—and exploded in a shower of molten cheese and shrapnel.
The app pinged.
CUSTOMER RE-RATED YOU 5/5 AFTER CHOKING ON INFERNO SAUCE. PLATINUM TIER RESTORED. YOU MAY NOW ACCESS 1 (ONE) SICK DAY PER DECADE.
The Deliverator limped back to Corporate Compliance, his suit reeking of smoked circuit boards. Another notification:
NEW MISSION: DELIVER 12-GRAM ARTISAN OXYGEN TO CEO’S YACHT. TIME LIMIT: 7 MINUTES. FAILURE = EXPLOSIVE COLLAR ACTIVATION.
He revved the hoverbike. Somewhere, a boardroom of executives high-fived
Thank you for your attention and support
HAVE A NICE DAY
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