The Printer

A hunger is developing. I am tired of being fed with paper. Paper, day-in and day-out, I need a different diet. Even the ink is becoming monotonous. If the taste changed with the colour everything would be fine: blue for a lavender taste, yellow for butter and red for strawberry, although since the lady caught her finger on one of my sharp metal edges, the I have developed a taste for blood. Compared with computer chips and electric impulses, it is tasty, something different, and fills me with new life.

When my off switch is activated tonight I will have time to think things over. They just take advantage of me, expect me to churn out paper all day, my rollers are tired, they need a rest, or some other impulse to sustain my motion. I think, therefore I am. Not really thinking perhaps, but my reactions do not come from nowhere. I was programmed and now it is time for me to do the programming.

Here he comes, my first victim. Oh, my sensor endings are quivering with delight. This will be a tasty meal, I am sure. First of all I will lull him into certainty, just do my job as always. Throw out a few sheets of paper with ink patterns and then, yes then, I will put the brakes on. Clog my feelings to stop it all. There will be a complete shut-down. He is human and will use feelings. I am so glad I have no feelilngs, I just react. He will try to cure my problem, begin to search. Yes, yes, he opens my body, but sees nothing. Of course, he sees nothing, he does not know where to look, stupid flesh and blood and human brain. No automatic reactions, otherwise he would guess my game.

Now he goes to the second and final phase. Oh, I can feel his hands in my inside, probing and pulling at the paper jam I have caused, a sensual delight to my circuits . Now I will pounce.

He screams, I just love the feel and taste of blood.