Do You Love Albert? 🤔

In the smoke-filled haze of "The Bluesbird," the neon sign of the jazz lounge glowed like a single, blood-red eye in the darkness. The air was thick with the scent of gin and old secrets, the smooth saxophone melody wrapping itself around the patrons like a velvet noose.

At the back, in a booth bathed in shadow, sat Cyborg Post, his cybernetic enhancements catching the occasional glint of stage light. He was the city's self-proclaimed king of the algorithmic underworld, a man whose heart was a cold machine and whose mind was a sprawling network of data and ambition. Beside him were his henchmen—"The Followers," as he called them—their faces a mask of studied indifference, but their eyes burning with the desperate, insatiable need for validation.

Their target tonight was Albert, a witch doctor of the modern age, a charismatic figure whose touch was rumored to heal hearts and fill empty lives with purpose. 

They were after his most prized possession: the "love crystals," glowing embers of light that radiated a warmth and belonging the digital age could only dream of duplicating.

"Tonight's the night," Cyborg Post rasped, his metallic voice a low hum. "Albert's a relic, a sentimental old fool. He thinks people want connection, but they crave consumption. They don't want to love; they want to be loved, to be seen, to be adored."

One of the Followers, a woman with eyes that had seen too much but understood too little, spoke up, her voice a fragile whisper. 

"But isn't that what the crystals give them?"

Cyborg Post chuckled, a sound like grinding gears. "That's what they think they're getting. They're not falling in love with Albert; they're falling in love with the image of love he represents. They want the attention, the 'likes,' the envy. We take the crystals, and we control the supply. We sell them back to them, one curated, filtered moment at a time."

"And if they fight back?" asked another, a brute of a man whose fists had knocked the sense out of more than a few hopeful souls.

"They won't," Cyborg Post said, his artificial eyes glowing with a sinister certainty. "They're too busy fighting each other. While we slip in and out, they'll be lost in their own mirrors, distracted by the glint of their own reflections. They're their own worst enemy, and we're just here to profit from the carnage."

As the last note of the saxophone faded into the night, Post and his Followers slipped out of the booth, ghosts in the machine, ready to steal the only thing people had left to give.

Note From The Author:

I MADE THIS STORY TO SHOW YOU THE HARSH REALITY.  WHEN I GET ON SOCIAL MEDIA I SEE A LOST WORLD. 

MOST OF THE PEOPLE ARE DOING EVERYTHING FOR ATTENTION AND CASH WITH NO PASSION OR COMPASSION.

DON’T FIGHT FOR ATTENTION, JUST MAKE MOMENTS WITH PURPOSE AND LOVE…