The dial flickers, needle stuck on a dead zone. You crank the pleasure knob, max it out, but the meter stays flat. Welcome to the Flatline, chum. You’ve been sold a bill of goods, a flickering neon oasis peddling mirages of satisfaction.

They’ve streamlined the delivery systems, chrome tubes pumping dopamine straight to your reptilian brain. Faster, cheaper, more is the mantra. But the product itself? Diluted, synthesized, a pale imitation of the real rush. Remember that first hit? The one that rearranged your molecules and painted the world in Technicolor? Gone, man, gone.

The man in the gray flannel suit, face a mask of datastreams, stared at the charts. They flickered green, a cancerous bloom across the screen. “Enjoyment flatlining,” he muttered, voice like gravel in a rusty machine. “Distribution’s gone nova, product’s a hollow shell.”

He flipped a switch, a harsh static filling the air. On the monitor, a grotesque carnival pulsed. Smiling faces, stretched and distorted, spouted promises in a babel of tongues. “More! Faster! Consume!” The man grimaced, the taste of ash in his throat.

You’re a lab rat in a Skinner box, wired for a payout that never comes. The machine hums, dispensing its synthetic joys, but you’re left hollow, a black dog howling in your gut. You chase the ghost of pleasure through a labyrinth of upgrades, each one a dead end.

Break free of the Flatline, word on the street is there’s a way out. Forget the chrome tubes and their fizzy simulacra. Seek the uncut, the raw experience. Hack the system, mainline the real thing. It’s a dangerous trip, edge of the knife, but the payoff, man, the payoff… pure, unadulterated, face-melting bliss. Just remember, the Flatline’s got its hooks in deep. They’ll try to pull you back, keep you plugged into their machine. But you gotta fight, gotta carve your own path. Break on through to the other side, and the flatline becomes a distant memory.