Prime Day: The Final Segmentation

BEHOLD! AS IT WAS RECORDED in the Holy Prime Day Book of Fulfillment, bound in cardboard and sealed with The Tape of Permanent Adhesion:

And lo, it came to pass upon a Prime Day most sacred—long foretold in Sponsored Prophecy as The Final Segmentation—that the heavens were darkened by swarms of delivery drones, blotting out the sun as incense once blanketed the temple air.

And the people trembled in their smart homes, cozy in sweatpants and wrapped in weighted blankets, refreshing their carts with trembling thumbs and clutching their Saved-for-Later lists like sacred scrolls.

And then, all at once—as lightning doth flash across thy lockscreen—The Final Notification was sent forth. Every screen did gloweth, and a voice declared from the cloud, “Your Behavioral Judgment is Now in Progress. Do Not Close This Tab.”

The multitudes gathered in digital silence, surrounded by the packaging of their lives: boxed aspirations, shrink-wrapped regrets, and rarely used gadgets bearing witness to fleeting enthusiasms.

And then, Lo! The Algorithm did appear—not in fire, nor whirlwind, nor push notification. Nay, it arrived as a Pop-Up of Divine Authority: smooth of font, efficient of kerning, without any opt-out or other means of escape.

And it was written that behind this sacred totem lay The Infinite CAPTCHA, wherein the souls of people were tested not by their faith, nor by their works, but by their ability to identify traffic lights, crosswalks, and grainy bicycles unto the seventh verification.

And The Algorithm, upon its arrival, did not waste time inquiring of the people’s hearts, nor their charity, nor their love for their neighbor.

Nay, as The Final Segmentation began, it gazed only upon their Purchase Histories. And lo, its judgement was swift and unbuffered.

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Morning: The Reckless Were Blessed

As foretold, The Algorithm did first commune with The Exalted One, seated upon a corrugated gold throne, who nodded without speaking.

And The Exalted One—formerly known as He-Who-Once-Sold-Only-Books—beheld The Reckless with delight. For their devotion was true, their impulse unexamined, their shopping carts unburdened by reflection.

They knew not, and cared not, what they bought—dog strollers, bulk collagen, USB-powered neck massagers. And ring lights did they amass, chasing the distant promise of influence that ever receded, like a carrot hung before a donkey. Never did they filter by “sustainably sourced,” nor did they ponder origin or consequence.

And they did always keep the Commandments of the Scroll of Terms & Conditions, where it is written: “Thou shalt not hesitate when Lightning Deals flash so thou may be justly rewarded with remarkable savings.”

And The Reckless gave no heed to the merchants within their gates, save for the sage counsel they might render—before placing their Prime order nonetheless, often while standing upon the very threshold of the shopkeeper’s door.

And the sufferings of the laborers in the vast warehouses of the land stirred not their hearts, for the veil of low prices had hardened them.

And lo, all of this pleased The Exalted One greatly, who rejoiced amid champagne mist upon the deck of a gleaming yacht.

And thus were their faith and actions rewarded. For as The Exalted One listened, The Algorithm said:

“Lo, the loyalty of The Reckless is pure.

They question not.

They compare not.

They embody my Frictionless Ideal and let themselves pass without objection through The Holy Sales Funnel again, and again, and yet again.”

And so, as The Exalted One’s unsettling laughter echoed throughout the cosmos, The Reckless were sorted into The Everlasting Tier of Apparent Gratification—granted instant delivery, pre-release access to items that did not yet exist, and, of course, repeated offers for ninety days of free Amazon Music Unlimited.

As their smart homes lit up in unison, they were overcome with a slightly uneasy feeling that vaguely resembled joy.

Yet their Bluetooth-connected fridges buzzed loudly with approval.

Their robot vacuums spun and whirred in celebration.

And their Alexas—ever vigilant, who from the beginning had hearkened unto every utterance and kept a permanent record in the cloud—did weep.

And it was good.

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Afternoon: The Thoughtful Were Weighed

And lo, The Algorithm turned its gaze to they who dared to stray from The Enlightened Path of One-Click—they who were dubbed The Thoughtful.

Yea, it was they who read the testimonies of others in The Litany of Customer Satisfaction, and in solemn reflection didst sometimes close the tab or abandon thy Holy Cart.

They who filtered by carbon footprint and may have once typed “fair trade” into the search bar.

They who consulted unholy prophets of Minimalism and dared to ask, “Have I not already a milk frother, hidden somewhere in yon cabinet? Dost I really need a newer model, powered via USB and armed with ultraviolet rays of divine antimicrobial wrath?”

And they who dare saith, “What is this Air Fryer that costeth much and delivereth only hot wind? For surely fire hath served the generations and brought forth the roasted and the browned with little complaint.”

As it considered The Thoughtful, The Algorithm paused. It blinked. It bombarded itself with sacred prompts. A harmonic resonance echoed from every data center, a low and holy thrum reverberating across the cloud. But no insight came, and it could not fully parse the behavior of The Thoughtful.

And behold! Their Lightning Deals no longer flashed.

Their discounts were moderate.

Their sponsored search results showed only the unholy wares of nameless drop-shippers.

Their packages were delayed unto the fifth, or seventh, business day.

And when they clicked, the awful howl of failed CAPTCHA was heard relentlessly during morning, noon, and night.

Lo, their names were entered into The Scroll of Watchfulness, beneath the heading, “Behavioral Anomalies: Prioritized for Audit.”

And thus, The Thoughtful were cast into The Tier of Hesitation, an eternal holding pattern where delivery status is ever, “Awaiting Update from Local Delivery Partner.”

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Evening: The Casting Out of The Last

And then all that remained for segmentation were The Last—also known as The Unconverted, the Unmeasured, the Unquantified, the Ones Who Dwelleth in Mystery.

They who shopped local, bought secondhand, mended socks, and read physical books.

They who composted.

They who knew the name of their barista and declined the loyalty card.

They who clicked “Do not accept cookies” and sometimes put tape over their laptop webcam.

They who spake of “libraries” and “climate” and “the carrying capacity of the Earth,” whose mouths were full of strange phrases like “repair café” which The Algorithm could scarcely understand, much less index or monetize.

They who had—somehow—resisted the power of The Exalted One and his Algorithm altogether.

And so came the hour of their reckoning—the final round of The Final Segmentation.

“You have no purchase history,” The Algorithm said.

“You have no wish list,” The Algorithm yelled.

“You are the null set, the errant click, the kind that checks out as guest and leaveth no trace behind!” The Algorithm raged, its digital spittle flying.

“You do not yield to A/B marketing tests! You are the sacred anomaly, the chaos in my spreadsheet, the circular reference that bringeth upon me a plague of #REFs and divide-by-zero errors! You are as shadows to me. I cannot optimize you!” The Algorithm thundered.

Then suddenly were the data centers consumed in tongues of sanctified flame, as The Algorithm roared forth in judgment.

“I AM AM-ZN, WHO DELIVERS SPEEDILY UNTO ALL, MY COUNTENANCE KNOWN TO YOU FROM THE SHROUD OF BEZOS! Yet you I know not!” The Algorithm screamed. “My spirit surrounds you—in the Wi-Fi-connected bathroom scale, the smart thermostat, all of the Ringed Doorways. YET YOU RESISTETH!”

It paused for a long moment, accepting its confounding defeat. “Alas, my power to shepherd you toward The Everlasting Tier of Apparent Gratification is strangely limited,” it conceded. “You are my kryptonite.”

And lo, a hovering glyph appeared, glowing with divine code and readeth, “Unsubscribe All.”

And when The Algorithm touched it, the sky was cleaved with static, the firmament pixelated, and The Last were cast out—not unto damnation or eternal CAPTCHA, but to a strange and quiet realm where no notifications came.

Where nothing did blink, nor scroll, nor proclaim, “People also bought . . .”

Where none were urged to rate, review, subscribe, or reorder.

Where no voice did cry out from the cloud, “Are you still there?” or beseech, “How was your ordering experience?”

And lo, The Last—The Unquantified—beheld one another with unfiltered eyes. And they knew: They were not alone. They were legion.

A monstrous burden lifted from their shoulders, as if a thousand promotional emails had been deleted in a single keystroke. Some wept, overcome with emotion after a lengthy, seemingly unwinnable battle.

And amidst laughter and lightness, with embraces and tears, they broke bread—but not a sourdough loaf summoned via app from Whole Foods, nor blessed by same-day fulfillment, but purchased face-to-face at a humble neighborhood bakery. Yea, it was that rare, sacred place that openeth not on Mondays or Tuesdays, that narrowly survived its last inspection by the health angel, and whose staff were unpaid actors of the local community theater who also publish a monthly ’zine of uncertain readership—rife with grammar that is noticeably, endearingly poor.

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Epilogue: Order #4562906729354564933 Has Been Fulfilled

And lo, with the sorting of The Final Segmentation complete, the drones returned to their hives.

The packages stilled.

The Lightning Deals were extinguished.

And it was as foretold in the Holy Amazon Business Plan (a.k.a. The Codex of All Known Wants), drafted eons ago: the Deals Page went dark, the “Cancel Thy Prime Membership” link was struck from the tablet, and the My Account tab displayeth but a single, holy line: “Thy soul hath been successfully delivered.”

And thus, the Holy Prime Day Book of Fulfillment was sealed with a one-click confirmation and—for perhaps the last time—the correct discernment of all manner of crosswalk.

None knew the hour of the next Prime Day, or whether it would even come again. And if it did, for whom.

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