Now one of the girls was checking something on her monitor, turning to the other girl, and laughing even louder. At this, he realised that he had forgotten to switch off his Facebook financial integration feature, and it was set to fuse with any store systems he encountered. In other words, the shop assistants knew he didn’t have much to spend at all, and that he’d bought his carefully maintained clothes more than 2 years ago, without replacement. He turned red as he considered the cost of not keeping his Facebook settings in check. The assistant was now coming towards him, and he dreaded what she would say. Would she ask him to leave? It was ironic how Facebook extended even here, in this store that advertised that it offered better service than Facebook itself. These outlandish claims were propagated by designer types who thought that their celebrity credentials could outwit the Facebook design engine, which could now track the preferences of 5 billion people and produce manufactured goods in realtime, depending on what was popular at the time.
She approached him, striding confidently and with a face that reminded him of Facebook poker:
“Sir, I notice from Facebook that your credit is really poor and I’m going to have to ask you to leave. This is a luxury zone sir, and you have to have a net Facebook credit rating of three hundred and twenty seven to be allowed in here sir. There is a shop just outside the zone than can cater to your needs, or you can use the Facebook economy service. I also see that you’re a registered Facebook addict, and there’s a dosage centre right there.”
She had said it with a straight stare, through his Facebook visor, and all his friends could see him. He could hear their laughter through the Facebook audio visor, and their comments were flashing in his real time visor.
“You frickin loser!” read one comment.
“Another one bites the dust” said another.
He turned, without saying a word, and walked out into the Facebook-filled night.
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