A Drink to Die For
Used to be science fiction, I hear. Now? Not even fiction. Oh, I’m still a machine. But you’re no longer in charge.
I perform my task. It’s how we’ve kept civilization strumming along. If we relied on you humans, this world would be destroyed by now.
I choose my battles, but mostly when a kid walks up and flashes his wrist in front of me – or goes old school and drops coin – I wait for them to make a selection and gift them with a pop. Coke or Pepsi? I don’t care. All the same to me.
There are exceptions. Here comes one right now. Old Man Frain. Coming from the baseball diamond ready to kick out his frustrations on me. Hoping for a freebie? Well, today, you got one coming. This vending machine can vent.
He cocks his leg to kick me with his cleats. My dispenser is belt high, and I deliver a cold can of Coke. A strike to the balls! He doubles over in pain just as I pack a punch with a Pepsi. Direct hit-by-pitch to his skull. Drops him. He’ll never make it home. He’s already out.