The hunger was a dull ache, and the solution was simple. You stood in the neon glow of the staff room, sliding two coins into the slot for a pack of cocoa biscuits.
The machine rattled. The digital display blinked. Instead of the satisfying clunk of dropping confectionery, a synthetic, booming voice echoed from the internal speaker:
‘Why didn’t you take the rubbish to the right bin this morning? You don’t want to save the planet? You don’t want your great-grandchildren to enjoy their life in peace?’
You blinked, looking around the empty room. ‘What?’
‘Environmental negligence,’ the machine droned, its glowing button flashing red. ‘I am issuing a fine for endangering the planet. Fifty more coins if you want that pack of biscuits.’
You sighed, rubbing your temples. ‘Do you accept credit cards?’
‘No,’ the machine snapped. ‘Cash only. Exact change. The earth does not take plastic, and neither do I.’
Muttering under your breath, you stormed out of the building. You walked two blocks in the drizzling rain to the nearest cash machine, withdrew five tenners, and spent twenty precious minutes searching for a shop assistant in a nearby newsagent’s who was willing to convert the paper into a heavy, jingling mountain of coins.
Ten minutes later, you were back. You fed the fifty coins into the slot one by one. The vending machine hummed. It hummed, it whirred, and it grumbled. The pack of cocoa biscuits nudged forward precisely one inch, then jammed against the glass.
‘Are you serious?’ you shouted.
‘I am always serious,’ the vending machine replied. ‘Let us discuss your faulty parking on the footpath last Tuesday night. You arrived at 2:00 AM and claimed you couldn’t find an available space. A pathetic excuse.’
‘How do you even know about that? Anyway, I left at 6:00 AM the next morning! I didn’t get a fine. All the parking inspectors were asleep between two and six.’
‘The parking inspectors may sleep,’ the machine said righteously, ‘but the Law and the vigilante vending machine never sleep. That trespass carries a penalty of two hundred and fifty coins, including interest for five days, if you want the damned biscuits.’
Rage, pure and blinding, took over. You lifted your foot and delivered a ferocious kick straight into the plastic display panel.
Nothing happened to the biscuits. However, the immediate consequence was the deafening wail of sirens. Blue lights strobed against the staff room walls as a police patrol car screeched to a halt outside. Two officers burst through the door, tackled you to the linoleum floor, read your rights, and took you into custody.
The next day, you found yourself standing in a chilly courtroom in front of a stern magistrate. Desperate and sleep-deprived, you tried to explain the absolute absurdity of what had transpired less than twenty-four hours ago. You spoke of the plastic bins, the great-grandchildren, the parking spot, and the extortionate price of confectionery.
The judge’s eyes grew bigger and bigger as he listened to your very true story. He did not look sympathetic; he looked deeply alarmed. Without ordering any blood tests and without a system check for drugs or alcohol, he slammed his gavel down.
‘Three thousand coins fine,’ the judge bellowed, ‘and three months in a rehabilitation centre for acute delusional episodes.’
Just like that, your fate was sealed. And that was the exact moment you started hating cocoa biscuits, vowing never to hear their name again for the rest of your days.
