I’m pissed to fuck and dabbed out of my head on sticky cocaine. My jeans and socks are inside this thing, doing some sort of dance. The half-a-tab has rewired my brain. Hoodie and T-shirt are in there too. As it starts to whirr and shake, my body picks… picks up the beat. I want it harder, more intense. Be my bass god, techno priest. Its vibrating motor gathers speed, white skin against white metal, my body wraps around it, groin pressed firmly to its throbbing shell. It rocks me backwards, rocks me forwards, feeling frisky, feeling nice, then there’s this kinda click. The pulsating motor gets stronger, stronger, building, building with every stroke. Doing me like some monster bunny… breathless, panting, faster, louder… faster, faster, panting, louder, breathing, breathless… feeling horny as a rhino… and then … the machine shudders… “What the fuck?“… and stops.
“Alexa, you gotta help me out!” I scream at the black tube-shaped box. Time takes a holiday, the intercom buzzes. “That was quick”, I think.
“Problem with your washing machine, sir?” says the voice.
“Come, quickly!” I say, and in comes the engineer.
Then he does what engineers do, a scratch on his head, a tut-tut-tut, then lets out a breath of stale air.
“It’s not serious? You can fix it?” I say, trying not to appear too desperate, “I’m sure it’s under guarantee!“
“No worries, sir, we always find the fault“, says the engineer, scanning me with his camera-stare eyes.
I ask him politely, “Cuppa tea? Choccy bik?“; to test if he’s human, get my drift?
“That won’t be necessary, sir“, says he, with his monotone voice.
It’s got to be; he’s one of them AIs. I’m 78 per cent certain.
“There doesn’t appear to be anything wrong with this machine, sir“, it says.
95 per cent and rising. Stay calm, prepare to run.
“But it shuddered and stopped?” is the best I can mutter.
“That’s what washing machines do, sir, once they’ve finished their cycle“, it says, pointing. “Just press the reset button here.“
She came first… that’s so sweet.
“Fuck!” two more engineers at the door.
“All sorted here?” one asks.
“I’ve located the defective part“, says the first engineer.
The other two stand to block the door. “Shall we order a replacement, boss?“
What they clearly mean is me.
I stand there like a rubber leaf; my bladder thinks the worst.
The engineer looks at me, then looks at his two men. “Don’t think that will be necessary lads, but thank you all the same.”
One by one, their lips quiver, and their stern mouths start to crack. A more beautiful sound you’ll never hear than when washing machine engineers begin to laugh.