Machine Of Death Read Online Free PDF Page B

exposing his substantial midsection. “I mean, look at me.”
    “Can’t not,” said Scott, swallowing his latest bite. “You take up our entire visual field.”
    “Hmph,” said Brad, raising both his chins in a dignified fashion and turning his back to Scott’s table. “Look at me, Simon. Here I am, going to die in a car crash or something. So, I don’t worry about the roast beef melts anymore. I don’t worry about the soda refills. And I don’t worry about getting the chili and the cheese on the fries instead of going healthy and eating them without.” He smiled amiably. “You see?” he said. “Little changes. I know it won’t matter what I eat, so I eat what I want. And I’m happier for it.”
    Brad shook his head, then. “But you, Simon. You’re thinking about this thing all the time now. It can’t be good for you.”
    “I
want
to think about this thing all the time, Brad,” said Simon, earnestly. “I am looking forward to it. Like you wouldn’t believe.”
    “For Pete’s sake, Simon,” said Brad. “Why?”
    “Because,” Simon replied, his pale brown eyes as wide as the veldt itself, “it will be the most exciting thing that’s ever happened to me.”
    Brad shrugged. “Suit yourself,” he said. “But I read in this self-help book my mom gave me that you shouldn’t sacrifice your now just because you’re looking forward to being eaten by a bunch of lions at some point in the future.”
    “Don’t worry,” said Simon. “I’m not sacrificing my now. I’m happier, healthier, and more vital than I’ve ever been.” He smiled. “The thing is, Brad,” he said, “everything I do for my lions? It makes my life better too.”
    There came the sound of a throat clearing from the door of the break room. Simon looked up.
    “Pfennig,” said Paul Armbruster (Vice President In Charge Of Targeted Media Solicitation), leaning into the room. “When you have a moment. My office, please.”
    Silence. Simon gathered his smile. “Certainly, sir,” he said, tossing the box from his frozen dinner into a nearby waste container and stepping toward the door.
    “After lunch is fine,” said Mr. Armbruster. The tips of his moustache lifted in a tiny grimace, as though someone had invisibly popped by with an eyedropper full of lemon juice and given him a bit. “But soon. We need to talk about your…performance.”
    Simon’s smile did not falter. “‘Performance’ in the sense of ‘how I’m doing relative to the quota’?”
    “No,” said Mr. Armbruster, sucking on his tongue thoughtfully. “‘Performance’ in the sense of ‘Ooh, ooh, look at the dancing bear; now look, he’s riding a little unicycle.’ That type of performance. Specifically,” he added, “your performance earlier this morning, Pfennig.”
    “Right,” said Simon, his smile still adamant. “After lunch, then?”
    “Yes,” said Mr. Armbruster. “If you please.” He then vanished from sight.
    The subsequent quiet was broken only by the noise of Scott sniggering quietly to himself in the corner.
    Brad smiled at Simon, sheepishly.
    The microwave went ‘ding.’

    “Pfennig,” said Mr. Armbruster, motioning to the chair opposite his desk with one hand and taking a moment to fine-tune his rather heroic combover with the other. “Sit down, please.”
    “You wanted to speak with me, sir?” said Simon, taking a seat.
    “That is, in fact, why you are sitting in my office right now,” said Mr. Armbruster.
    A moment passed as Armbruster sucked on his tongue again for a bit. Then he leaned forward and nudged a small brass dish out from behind a fancy little wooden desk clock and over toward Simon. “Malted milk ball?” he asked.
    “Don’t mind if I do,” said Simon, cheerfully helping himself to one.
    Armbruster regarded Simon as he sat, there, crunching. “You understand,” he began, “why I brought you in here today.”
    “I think so,” said Simon, swallowing his candy. “You’re about to tell me a piece