I remove another dollar and slide it into the slot. The machine gobbles the note, but still the screen gives no credit. “Please deposit 75 cents.”
Rage engulfs me as I begin beating the machine from side to side. “LOUSY ROTTEN GOOD FOR NOTHING…” The unadulterated hate I feel for this mechanized pick pocket knows no bounds. I rock the device back and forth, hoping to shake something, anything For my investment. “DAMN PIECE OF SHIT! GIVE ME MY CANDY BAR!” One final hefty sway of the machine promises to give me what I want, or rather what I deserve. As it swings forward, it knocks me to the ground following me close enough that I can’t move out of the way. The last thing I see?
I hate Karma.
