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lucky worker’s Bio-mark. Why the Academy never did anything about the Select’s dangerous vices, is because they see it as a form of discretionary population control.
    “ It is better for the non-conformists who hide from my bidding to kill themselves, than spending all the time and effort to keep them in line.”
    –These are words from the Great Master’s mouth, trickled down to the entire population.
    “ OW! ” Beaver said, grabbing his thigh.
    The Vacu-bot ran into his side, almost knocking him off of the stool.
    “ Sorry Beet … ” it said, as it scurried in a different direction.
    The stupid domestic robot could never pronounce Beaver’s name correctly.
    “Next trade off, I’m going to get a Tommymop and drop you on a pile of excrement in Stowelowly!” Beaver said with a shaken fist.
    The term tommymop was part of a form of acceptable explicit language among the Academy patrons. The Tommymop or Autonomous cleaning device as it was officially known was the first model of many Academy issued failures. Quickly pulled from service, the Tommymop was known for horrific, disabling injuries caused by its bump and go action and spinning rotomop. It also had the ornate ability to spontaneously combust. This led to the slang vernacular of calling everything that was bad, lazy, or unacceptable a Tommymop.
    “Now, Beaver2416 … you be are play nice.” The victual android said in a demanding tone.
    Beaver laughed out loud, as he could not help himself. He then, got up from the creaking stool, and sat down in the comfortable Lev-seat. The progscreen suddenly illuminated and the wave holgraphia machine began to whir in synchronization. This was the only time of night that Beaver would ever sit in the Lev-seat. It was for two reasons: The first, being that it was time for the nightly report, which was nothing more than a biased news programme about what has happened today throughout New Judah. This was the only time each day that rather than the standard bombardment of pro-Academy, Pro-G.M. propaganda, it was remotely tolerable to Beaver. Secondly, because it was the last programme of the night before slumber; it would all turn off soon after.
    Beaver slumped down in the chair, trying to make up for his moments of discomfort. As the screen brightened with colorful graphics, a very distinguished gentleman with plasticized grey hair materialized into view, sitting behind a Lev-desk. He had an electron-eye strapped on one side of his head, feeding the director’s instructions directly into his cerebellum. The eye flashed as the news information was relayed directly into his mind, controlling his every action by bypassing his cortical and subcortical network. This was to prevent any form of free-thought or rebellious actions on the part of the commentator.
    Puppet people (or just P.P. for short) is how Beaver and Tim referred to them in secret.
    This was very much true, because just one slip of the tongue or one outburst of free will, could spark a new ideology in the minds of followers of the Great Master. A sentence or even a word spoken that was a contra-position of the Edict was something that the Academy could not afford to happen. Truly, with all of their technology, weaponry, and social structuring; the Academy powers were merely a house of cards, when it came to the sheer power of their enslaved. Tim and Beaver knew more than anyone in Westbrook that in spite of their societal positioning and downtrodden placement, they were the majority.
    The news anchor railed on about new, exciting uses for garbage and human excrement and debates on how the price of cinnamon could surpass Cumal in the coming spans.
    “ Finally! ”--Beaver murmured to himself.
    The newsperson outstretched his hand towards the Weath-girl. The sightglas shifted and focused upon a gleeful, mid-young woman giving the daily weather report and bright index. It was the only part of the programme that Beaver actually enjoyed. One reason was, with the