I came home to an empty apartment after getting the bottom half of my anti-depressive companion robot tuned. A note on my door said I had seven days to pay the balance on my robot before they auctioned off my life's accumulations.

How much did they think my wet dream boxers would sell for?

I lugged my anti-depressive companion down the street to the nearest payment kiosk. Needles extended into my skin and started taking blood to clear my balance. They kept sucking as I leaned against my robot, kept sucking as my eyes closed, and kept sucking as I fell.

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