The Machine

“BUY.” The man urges as he shoves you onto the conveyor belt. “Purchase. Consume.” A machine built of flesh and programming grips your skull, nods your head. The man makes a curt gesture. “Next.” He spits, and suddenly you are whisked away. In the darkness, you hear the echo of his voice: “BUY. Purchase. Consume.”

The sound lingers in your mind as the belt tows you forward>>>. Machinery bends and shapes you, poses you and stretches the corners of your mouth into a smile. :) Pictures scroll past, men built of shining muscle and women cut from narrow plastic. “Want me.~” They whisper. “Be like me,” and the machinery bends you into all of their poses.

Eyeless faces rise out of the darkness and frown at you as you pass, :( mouths only opening to criticize the way you FAIL to approach the perfection of the shapes around you. :/ They whisper and gossip, trade barely audible giggles about the way your skin, your hair, your eyes and the ~curves~ of your flesh cometogether. For every critique, A RED NUMBER blares at you, registering each comment in a steady score of burning, negative numbers. “Bend this way!” They shriek, then gossip again as you comply. “Bend that way!”

“You are worthless.” A voice thunders above them all. “You need the machine. Without it you are nothing.” A large plastic hose capped with a grubby nipple descends, thrusts toward your face. ( o )

“Suck.” The voice orders. “Suck.”


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E.S. Wynn once stepped outside of the box. He never came back.