When his parents signed the papers to have him be a corporately sponsored citizen, they saw it only as a means of guaranteeing their child a life free from the burden of financial ruin. That was twenty seven years ago, and what they didn’t know then was that super-inflation combined with the increasingly strict contract modifications he had no choice to accept, the 2% yearly adjustment Red Bull Jones was granted did nothing but remove the burden of choice when it came to choosing what it was when he wanted to eat and even more often drink.

This wasn’t entirely true, Jones could always send enough of an electrical current through his testicles to force a reset on the H.T.M.S. (Hunger & Taste Management System) that sat monitoring the chemical signatures present in his large intestine, but even then it was only good for fifteen, maybe thirty minutes between shock to relapse. Given the questionable timing of the human digestive system, Jones usually opted simply to forgo digestion and pump it straight into his nervous system via whatever was at hand.

This is why Jones only technically had eight fingers, and technically, he’d been dead for the last twelve minutes. At first this had worried him, death always seeming to be the worst the world had to offer, but after a moment of reflection, seemed a much kinder burden than eating enhanced crayfish from within an aluminum pouch with technicolored lettering on the front.