The Lovely Machine. by GJ Hart

You sloppy, dumb slut
A digital note fattened and broke, splashing down on the pavement.

The machine mounted the kerb hard, its plasti-conk juddering

He giggled. Leg bouncing on heel.
You stinky bitch.

The machine whirred over branches broken down by the storm.
"I'm coming I'm coming!" it beeped, moving to beneath his window.

He decided not to masturbate. Instead he span in his chair laughing like a small dog.
You ugly and your hair like a pig.

"I am here. I am here!" beeped the Machine.
Its effectors rose, pincers rotating into place. They closed and began to vibrate, epilating its plasti-conk square by tiny square, until every strand lay razed upon the pavement.
The machine felt cool night air against the absence.
Its plasti-conk pivoted up toward the window, its acceptor oscillating with contentment

He took a huge swig of coke, swished it around his mouth, sucking it back and forth through his teeth.
You stinky shit and your breath smells like old nappy shit.

The light in the window: warm as buttered toast although the machine had never eaten buttered toast. A small door popped in its side and it removed the vial of acid within. It pulled the cork free and emptied the liquid into its acceptor. Its views escalated as pain shot like chimney fire. It doused itself in the rest, beeping like a circuit bent trombone, pincers scrubbing hard

He threw a handful of sweets into his mouth. Their coatings rattled against his teeth. He bit down, swooning as the chocolate slipped down his throat.
You eat shit and you like it.

Being in abrupt conflict to its design and protocols, the machine understood this manoeuvre would prove difficult, an understanding that pleased it.

The machine's effectors snapped apart and lowered. Once in place, its pincers took hold of its basal conduit and began to stretch it slowly up toward its acceptor. A smell of burning disk and bearings, a whining from deep inside it, but finally ductility attuned and it pushed the hose home.

As it ate, tiny fibres rose over its surface like magnetised filings. Light entered each, until plump as freshly pumped sausage, they began to undulate in unison, murmurated lip-blues and mould-greens.
A white puss began to curdle and spit from the tips of its pincers as its effectors rose in rapture.
"I love you. I love you" beeped the machine
"Can you not see?"

He scratched his arse.
You family stinks of shit and you should die.

"So soon. Too soon. I've only just started" beeped the machine sadly.
A tiny orb at the centre of its plasti-conk blinked to black. Its left pincer span and clonked to the floor, a silver cylinder extending in its place. Its plasti-conk pivoted up one last time toward his window as it pushed the cylinder into its acceptor. A snap of pressurised air.
The light
in the window
went out.

The next morning scraping ice from his windscreen, he noticed something in the road: the remains of an animal ground to dull paste by passing traffic. How sad he thought, climbing into his car, placing two folders on the passenger seat, pushing coffee into the centre console.