a machine by chris. an old, worn out machine sat in a brown leather recliner watching a video which discussed the possibilities of human bionics. the machine laughed, because it knew the theories were already being put into working practice; that humans had turned into machines decades ago. it was an old story. the machine went to the kitchen and poured itself a bowl of wheaties. stacked cans of tuna sat on the counter next to his bowl. chicken of the sea. it used to work there, on the assembly line. it checked each can as it passed by him. this postion was now obsolete, so it, the machine, was also obsolete. it was sent to its home to rust and die. it got a bottle of beer out of the refrigerator and about four shots of whiskey sitting in a mason jar in the pantry and emptied the containers out over the wheaties, then stirred it with a spoon. as it waited for the cereal to become soggy it went to the restroom and emptied its black oil from its false phalice. the oil trickled slowly out of the prosthetic, pushing its way through a swollen metal prostate. the machine shook the phalice and went back to its bowl of wheaties. it drank the cereal and beer and whiskey, pouring it down its clanking throat. the liquor joined the oil in the machine's tubes and made its way to the central processing unit. the unit exploded in a series of pops and sparks and gave what the machine believed to be pleasure. then it sat back down in its recliner and watched the busy static at work on the television machine.

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