Machine Of Death Read Online Free PDF

said Simon. “Just like they can hear a smile.”
    “Uh huh,” said Scott. “So d’ya suppose they can hear this little stain here on my shirt, too?”
    “I believe they can,” said Simon.
    “Wow,” said Scott, with feigned amazement. “Those are some really keen ears right there, Simon.” He snickered and spun his chair around a couple of times. “Dude, you have lost it, man,” he said.
    Simon pulled himself back to his desk, replacing his headphones just in time to hear the answering machine disconnect. “To each,” he said, with measured patience, “his own.”
    “I’m sorry, what?” said Scott. “I couldn’t hear you there, dude. Between my stain and your tie there’s just too damn much noise goin’ on around here.”
    Simon just shook his head as the auto-dialer worked its magic again, preparing to serve him up another golden opportunity. It was hard to get too angry with Scott about his little jibes. After all, thought Simon, Scott was likely bored and a bit depressed and was probably compensating for it by taking his frustrations out on the people around him. But he was fundamentally a good guy. He just needed a life goal or two; it would fix him right up.
    It had certainly fixed Simon right up. He himself had two life goals: (1) being torn apart by, and (2) being devoured by, lions.
    And that had made all the difference, really.
    The morning rolled on in a series of polite refusals, and soon it came time for lunch. Standing by the break room microwave, Simon marveled at how quickly the day was going. It was to be a short lunch; Simon had been thinking of ways to improve the company’s sales script, and since the auto-dialer gave him only limited opportunities to hash them out on work-time, he was thinking of devoting some of his break to the task.
    “Hey, Simon,” said one of his co-workers, coming up from behind. Brad. Blue-eyed, fair-haired and a bit on the pudgy side. Simon and he had joined up with the company about the same time, and Brad had quickly latched on to him as a conversational partner. Simon didn’t mind; Brad was, also, a fundamentally good guy. “I’m’a head to Mickey’s in a minute. You want I should pick you up some fries or something?”
    “Not today, Brad!” said Simon, twirling an empty little coated cardboard box in his hands, the erstwhile contents of which were now warming pleasantly in the microwave nearby. “Today I’m having Rosemary Chicken with Vegetables.”
    “Rosemary,” said Brad, frowning. “Is that an herb or something?”
    “Indeed it is,” replied Simon.
    Brad thought about this for a moment. “So you’re eating herbs now?” he said, eventually.
    “Yep,” said Simon. “It’s only polite, I figure. After all, you are what you eat. Right, Brad?”
    “Well, I guess I pretty much gotta be a triple-stacker roast beef melt by now,” said Brad.
    “Quite possibly,” said Simon, diplomatically. “But for me? No.” Simon smiled to himself, his eyes going distant. “No, Brad, from here on in, I intend to make myself exceptionally, even exquisitely, healthy. And, if possible,” he added, “herb-flavored.”
    Brad narrowed his eyes. “Wait a sec,” he said. “This isn’t the thing about being eaten by the lions again, is it?”
    “It will always be the thing about being eaten by the lions, Brad. From here on in, until it occurs.”
    “You’re obsessed, guy.”
    Simon grinned. “Perhaps,” he said.
    “Totally!” called out Scott from his corner table. He sneered at them around and through a mouthful of sandwich.
    “Hey, shut up,” said Brad.
    “Make me, fatboy,” Scott replied. Then he chucked a piece of onion at him.
    “Little snot,” muttered Brad, picking the onion out of his hair. “Look, Simon,” he said, putting his hand on Simon’s shoulder. “Little friendly advice. You don’t have to be a Machine of Death slave like this. Don’t be trapped by it. Use it to free yourself.” Brad spread his arms wide,