Fucking suits! A corporation has no face, but when it does, when it's
riding a person like a loa in a voudou ceremony, demonic possession of
the tender flesh by the legal entity without no flesh — you know. You
can see it in their blank eyes and their tight, serious mouths. There's
more force there than a single person has. They have the psychic charge
of the Corporation. The corporation now has a body. Les la société
enregistrée maintenant a une corps. And when it leaves you, it leaves you
a corpse.
     It's corporations that are the ghost space vampires of modern life.
All those beautiful dreams you had as a child transformed into engrams
for lighting the electric signs of the corporation — a life force that
some robber baron in the 1920's or the 1830's thought up, set down on the
world and gave a spin, and it's been spinning ever since, with wheels
made of concrete & iron, a machine that chews dreams & aspirations like a
city vehicle gnarls cut tree limbs, and aspirates green woodchips,
greenbacks, more electrons for the bank balances.
     You are collecting electrons. Dawn for the Electron Collector.
     Right now, for some reason, I can't for the life of me remember my
bank account number. It's like an area code and phone number, same number
of digits. Dig it, digits!
     Dialit. A deep, monstrous, disembodied voice answers. In the
background, the sound of wind, explosions, distant screaming.
     "Mammon?"
     "Yyyyyyyesssssssss...?"
     "Hail. Please send me more electrons."
     "Puny human! Begone!"
     Click!