[ WP ] There have been so many dystopian stories set in a world where Communism and Totalitarianism run wild , write one where Capitalism is now the bad guy

Another? 
 
 No, I'm done. Good to see you though! We should do this again some time. He smiled, a little out of focus ( both ways ). Sure, I'll let you know the next time I'm in town. 
 
 You coming out? Nah, I'll stay for a bracer before I go. OK, then. We shook hands and I headed for the door. Outside the air was brisk, giving my that little wobbly to my fuzzy head but with the promise of clarity to come. We'd picked a popular bar, so the curtilage was quite generous, a few hardy souls were hanging around by the gate line. I walked up to the gate to the street and reached for my credit pass holder. Not there! I checked my other pockets, with a growing sense of unease. Coat, inside and out, nothing. Trousers, side and hip. No. 
 
 I turned to head back into the bar, and stopped. The doorman eyed me. I, er, I left my pass holder in there, can I just… 
 
 No, sir, you can not. We appreciate-your-business but entry-is-a-privilege-not-a-right and requires-a-credit-pass-image or as-required-by-law-a-cash-deposit. Words he'd spoken many, many times before. The look in his eye said, go on, have a go, see how far that gets you. 
 
 I turned back to the gate line onto the street. Ten feet high, smooth metal. You really are n't supposed to be able to get through one without a credit pass. Or, as my bulky friend reminded me, as required by law, cash money. There was the slot in the ticket machine at the end go the gate line. It might even be working. Did I have any cash? I survey my pockets again, feeling much more sober. No cash. Of course not. 
 
 So, he'd said a bracer before I go? How long could that take? I could just wait here. I adopted a nonchalant pose. The folks over by the gates finished whatever conversation it was they were having and went back inside, swiping their passes over the door's sensor. Could I? No. The doorman was watching me very carefully and anyway, if there's one class of establishment that has a good paywall it's a bar. 
 
 I turned back to the gate line. I could feel the weight and heat of the doorman behind me. Sir, do you have business with this establishment? Well, I was drinking in there a few minutes ago, so… Sir, do you have current business with this establishment? The curtilage-is-provided-for-the-benefit-of-those-with-business-here and is not-a-public-right-of-way. 
 
 I looked around again, feeling very sober and slightly panicky. There! A help point, on the ticket machine. I stepped over and pushed the button. A synthesised voice, hardly less expressive than the doorman invited me to wait. I look back at the doorman, caught his eye and then pointed to the yellow line on the floor—I was on street property. He shrugged and looked away. 
 
 After a long seeming cold time a voice called to me through the chain link fence above the ticket machine. Two revenue support staff stood there, one a few paces back with one hand on a stun gun, the other eyeing me up. 
 
 Oh, yes, hi! Um, I left my pass holder in the bar, silly me, and so, I need to get home and I'd like to take a penalty fare for the street, and then I can claim it back once I have my credit pass again and it'll all be fine. The revenue support staffer smiled a smile that I did n't like at all and said ID. I tapped my empty pockets it's inside with my credit pass. U-hu. Name and address, date of birth, registration number. I recited my details while they were tapped in to a tablet. What do you need all that for? In case you have form, in case you're a repeat fare dodger. I'm not a… a hand was raised in my face. This is not your address. Yes, it is, that's where I live. No. We do not have anyone of that name at that address. The stun gun was now out. Not pointed, but out and ready. 
 
 Oh, wait, I moved there a few months ago, maybe your database is n't up to date. I gave the name of the previous owner. The revenuer looked down at the tablet again. We do not have anyone of your name at that address. Some heat rose from within me. Well, how is it my problem that your database is out of date? That is where I live! I'm trying to do the right thing here, and take the penalty fare! The stun gun was pointed now, and the doorman was hovering close to the yellow line. 
 
 Fare-evasion-is-a-very-serious-matter, sir, our-customers-pay-our-fares and fare-dodgers-both-reduce-the-profit-of-the-company, which-is-theft, and reduce-the-amount-available-to-invest-in-the-service. 
 
 Well, I looked around at the door of the bar again—how long does “ a bracer ” take? 
 
 *Edit: typos*
