It's a cool Thursday morning in the midwest USSA. I leave my apartment with my bike and pedal unhurriedly towards my job at the propaganda factory. I pass pedestrians and other cyclists, and light rail trams hum quietly in both directions just beyond the road. Shortly before 10, I arrive early at the office where the syndicate my friends and I formed a few months ago operates. I spend the first bit of my shift chatting with them while we plan our day. Eventually, I settle down to arrange new ways to send pigpoopballs to capitalists in the remaining oligarchies of the world. Each letter contains a return envelope, requesting a hog back. A small collection of dick pics, mostly flaccid, hangs on a cork board in a back room, trophies of successful operations.

At noon we walk to the park together to eat the lunches we packed from home. We lay our picnic blanket on the grass, where we have a view of the graceful fountain that the architecture co-op recently installed. It's warm in the sun, and one of us dozes off. After a while, we gently wake them and stroll back to the office, smiling while we talk about our weekend plans. For the rest of the day I re-write a script that our bots are using on new social nets. Marx v2.0 has generated a significant amount of interest, and our data show that the population in Nova New Zealand may be at a revolutionary tipping point in part thanks to our efforts. We're intensely proud of our work.

The sounds of my comrades closing up shop breaks my concentration - 2:30 snuck up on me. I gather my things and head out with them to the communal bike garage, where I had left mine unlocked. Some of us agree to meet at the community beer hall later that evening, while others bid us farewell until the start of the next work week on Tuesday. For the moment we split up, eager to see each other again soon.