"You've been black flagged." The clerk slotted Andre's card behind the register--schunk--and the spike perforated the chip.  The clerk handed the card back. "If you have cash, we can continue this transaction."

Andre stared at the hole in the plastic, its round eye no less judgmental than the murmurs along the queue behind him. This wasn't right. He was nowhere near the limit on the AraBank card. He fished his wallet, fingers on his alternate plastic, and caught the shake of the clerk's head in his periphery.

"Black flagged," the clerk repeated. Maybe nineteen, Andre thought. No mercy in his young eyes. The job was the job. Having empathy probably earned you less. "Any card you hand me will be spiked. The front end manager joined them. Her body was tensed. Maybe this usually ended in conflict. It wasn't Andre's way, though he could understand why someone might, watching the manager move his order onto the restocking robot. 

There was no apology tendered. The clerk called the next in line, the front end manager sent the restocker rolling away. It squeaked as it rolled as if laughing over its shoulder. 

from “The Debtor and the Flesh”