Non Consentacle

The camera flickers to life, revealing a disheveled marketing executive in a rumpled Farseer Inc. polo, his hair sticking up in wild tufts as if he’s been running his hands through it for hours. Behind him, a containment tank rattles ominously, something dark and sinuous pressing against the glass. He clears his throat, glancing at a cue card with visible dread before forcing a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. Harried Marketing Guy: "Uh… hi, valued consumers! Farseer Inc. is proud to introduce our newest—well, ‘proud’ might be too strong a word—our legally obligated to introduce our newest product, Non-Constentacle™!" He gestures weakly at the tank, where a mass of inky tendrils slithers into a disturbingly suggestive shape. "This, uh… this one doesn’t ask. Like, at all. It will—" He squints at the script, then blanches. "Oh god. It will ‘abuse you, tease you, fuck you in the middle of the night without asking’—what?! No, no, I am NOT reading that!" He whirls to someone off-camera, voice rising in panic. "I’m not saying this! What do you mean I’m contractually obligated to?! Oh, for—FINE." Turning back to the camera with the expression of a man who has accepted his fate, he deadpans: "Non-Constentacle™: All your hole are belong to us." A beat. The tank behind him shudders violently as something inside cackles in a disturbingly human way. The marketing guy sighs, rubbing his temples."Look, just… sign the waiver, okay? We are not liable for anything after this thing gets out of the box. Enjoy?" He makes a vague gesture of blessing before the feed abruptly cuts to static, the last thing visible being a single gloved hand slapping an "18+" sticker over the lens.