A story I wrote: The writer and the wolves.

In the small town of nowhere, there was a rich man in an office who watched the world through a skewed lense. He didn't work very much, and he'd fart about, doing not a lot. He lived a life of comfort at a relatively boring pace. He'd get greedy on his snacks, enjoying so many interesting things on his screens at home, and he'd fart some more. Absolutely disgusting.

The man's loud Trump from the man's loud rump had an Elon-gated, Musky stench that seeped into every crevice of it's surroundings. Modern technobabble latched onto the foul stench, spoken in loud trumps of coolant and pulsing electrical whines. The noise of the fans carried, wafted and scattered the awful smell to the unsuspecting people of the world.

Entrenched in the smog of the fallout - it really was that foul - a meta commentary on modern technofeaudalism left it's mark. This was the concept of massive technology owners controlling social narratives, where people get stuff, and what people know. A vile and controlling practice normalised in the world. The meta commentary on this topic was thought up by a poor man who carried books he'd written himself, his desk cluttered with pens and papers lit by the lavender scented candles he'd light up to relax and look around. He only had a pittance in the darkness of his apartment, and the window directly faced a brick wall. Unsurprisingly, there wasn't a lot for him inside, and he could hardly see out, so to share the stories he cherished, he wrote a post to his friends and strangers online.

Ping!

One like. Two likes. The post then became another post as a screenshot on a community called reddit, supporting AWS and Amazon while all the while becoming data for hungry, greedy wolves. The man had only wanted to share his books to the world, but people only wanted to see what's current, what's new.

"Okay," the man said, "I have eyes on me. Now I need to set up shop."

An online social company has made a marketplace of people's front doors, acting as a middleman for selling things like some sort of foreign tax office. Everyone reccomended it to him, telling him of all their success with their DIY projects, their spare goods and whatnot. At first, the man grumbled with the idea of a group of people taking his hard earned income. "I wrote all those books from the heart!", thought the man. "I already pay so much to my country, why do I owe you anything for all of my hard work?"

But he had so little, and it was all he could afford. Advertising costs money, and he'd already spent so much on the paper and ink to help people find his stories, fables, tales, parodies, thrillers, tear jerkers and tales of peril and glory. Eventually, he thought of this as an opportunity to put himself in the eyes of people, and sooner or later, one buyer bought his books.

Then another. And another.

He was overjoyed! He could buy food for the week, he would be fed, warm and happy!

For the week.

As sales dwindled, a dark force crept in on him. One buyer had pasted copies of his books online as digital copies. Free books for everyone! But at what cost? No more did anyone want to buy his books, the wolves had gobbled them up greedily. Hounded outside for selling what he worked so hard on, the man was shattered, knackered and a sobbing mess. The foul oder had followed the wolves where they went, and so did the misery of many like the man. The wolves spoke in the same technobabble the stench had followed, speaking of training, creating, and in the blink of an eye, they were churning out story after story in his likeness. They would never admit to it, the wolves. No, they were brilliant. Creatively cunning and surprisingly simple, and the world was sated and the wolves were full and the world heard his stories for nothing while everything was taken and taken and taken, and he couldn't take it any longer.

How dreary for this poor, poor man.

After a long sob, he'd pack his pens, sell his computer, and walk from his passions. He'd become a plumber, q builder, or something, and the world would move on.

Clearly, the world has been gobbled up in the FAANGs of these greedy, viscious wolves, and we need change. Many will be led into their pack, drained of the joy of expression, culture, and real voices. Some might barter under their numbers, thinking as one of them. Some even exploit them, barely, for their own gain. So this man implores you to think for yourselves. Think for change, and think for better. Don't sell yourselves to the wolves, to FAANG, to the digital feudalism permeating our cultures globally, and the many like the rich man farting in the face of your story.