The Pop Machine

There it was. The bane of my existence. The office Coke machine. It stood at the end of a long, dark hallway, the florescent lights flickered as the machine and I squared off. I flexed my hands. It hummed. I took one step. It hummed. I scratched a battle wound, a cut along my knuckle from my last run in with the monolith. It hummed cheerfully. I took another step, then another, slowly at first, then a little faster. Only a little further, then I would be there.

The lights behind me flickered out. I was worried now. I reached the machine; I could feel the pure evil emanating from the cool metal and plastic. I removed a dollar from my wallet. The giant coke bottle stared back at me. I put the dollar to the slot. The machine took it. Here is where things got nasty last time. I moved my hand down, slowly. Every muscle was tense, prepared to run at top speed back the way I came. I pushed the first button. A red light lit up. Damn. It foiled my plans once again. I pushed the next one down. It made a strange noise, then an ice cold Coke dropped into the slot.

"Ah," I thought, "now I have to reach in and grab it."

Cautiously, I reached into the machine. My wrist scrapped the edge and I froze. Nothing happened. Then it hummed. Honest to my stuffed tiger, it was humming the Wizard of Oz. I grabbed the bottle and went flying down the hallway, the lights coming on as I flew past them. I burst through the door, slammed it shut and leaned against the door, gasping for air.

I looked at my prize, a grin plastered on my face. I read the label, twice just to make sure. It was a Pepsi. I opened it anyway and wandered off to another hallway, to face the Vending Machine, the most unholy necessary evil ever given to mankind.