Majoritybots

"Those are nice," Brashton waved a butter knife side-to-side, pointing it at his date's hint of cleavage. He smiled the crooked smile of a dirty old man. It didn't fit his face of nineteen. He had slicked his sandy hair back, and had chosen a pinstriped suit for the night.

"Excuse me?!" The blonde lifted her jittering hands near her front.

Their drinks materialized in front them. Brashton had ordered straight tequila. Being allowed only one libation, he made sure to get the maximum proof possible. Who knew when the law would change, letting him be legal for another.  He sipped the drink with his knifeless hand. The vapors smacked the back of his sinuses.

He coughed like a novice.

The restaurant was a glass box dangling over an active volcano, supported by iron arches. There were no doors. There didn't need to be. Magma bubbled and swirled deep below. From time to time, steam fogged the translucent floor, and robots cleaned it off.

"You know. It's a compliment." Brashton moved the knife closer his date's chest. "I'll bet they'd make great handles."

Her face twitched with repulsion.

"Come on. You wouldn't have worn that if you didn't want a guy to look."

"Bot 341. I want out." The woman dematerialized in series of pixels.

"Ahhhhhhhhhhhhh. Son of a bitch!" Brashton smashed his fists on the table. Glass, silver and clay rattled. The chatters of patrons ceased. Judging faces froze, glaring that some young punk had the audacity to ruin their quiet evening. Brashton stormed over to the particularly condescending stare of a sequin-dressed woman. He stuck his face right up to hers. "What the hell are you looking at?"

Her date placed his hand on Brashton's shoulder. "Now sir, she didn't..."

Brashton whipped around, fist leading. Before he finished his rotation, he was back in his flat, a windowless, doorless box. His fist hissed through the air, easing his anger as well as snob-girl's sarcasm. His bot flashed tropical landscapes on his walls, with ukulele music and wave whooshes. Sea breeze air whirled in the room.

The calming attempt was futile.

Brashton flailed around his room, a flat in the heart of a skyscraper. His megalopolis was the lone residential city in the old USA. Everyone lived in one of world's 10 megalopolises. They had no names, and their buildings were nothing but windowless blocks hundreds of feet high. Not many walked outside in megalopolises. Not that they couldn't, there was just nothing to look at. Nothing but narrow lanes and miles of grids.

The rest of the world was for humanity's enjoyment and livelihood. The majoritybots worked the land only for what was necessary for human sustenance. Droids and other machinery were manufactured on either the moon, Mars or Venus. Teleportation made possible quick access of planetary resources.

From the old days, anything historic and beautiful (deemed by the majority) remained. Droids restored them annually. Yet, new structures could be created. If an individual, or a group of individuals, enjoyed architecture, sculpting, gardening, landscaping, or any other large-scale creative hobby, they could receive a permit to create in one of the numerous art-cities. Their art simply had to fit the theme of the particular city. (As determined by the majority, of course.) Certain cities were reserved for the more talented.

All elsewhere, natural habitat replaced unsightly and unnecessary structures.

"216! This is bullshit." Brashton grabbed a lamp and threw it. It disappeared before it hit the wall. The rest of his furniture dematerialized as well. Everything, but a lone twin mattress, sink and toilet. Brashton punched the wall. Sharp grit gnawed his knuckles. At his second punch, the wall's tropical image turned into padding. A spot of blood formed an 'n.'