Bobbo Versus The Machine

Today, in another unending episode of my highly successful work avoidance strategy, I found myself in search of chocolate, and finding myself in search of chocolate, I ventured to the vending machine.

The vending machine is a big black hulk of a machine that has been there since time immemorial, at the very least the 1980s, custodian of the corridor. Unexpectedly like a giant electronic samurai full of tasty food, the vending machine recognises honour. Indeed, it can sense whether it has successfully dispatched the requested produce, and should it fail, it will follow the old adage of try try trying again. Eventual abandonment will see its master's money returned; there will be no victims here. However, much like all charity, this principle is to be exploited by the weak willed and avaricious, and who am I to stop them?

On this particular visit, fate has conspired in my favour. A KitKat Chunky hangs out in the aether, row C2, tempting me with its pouting defiance of gravity. Surely if I asked for another, then both it and its neighbour would be released at once, doubling the value dispensed? I cannot lose.

Sweating nervously, I enter the code. Beeeep. No, failure! The sentient beast already knew of its previous deficiency and refused to be tricked in the same manner again. I curse, loudly.

Would I give in? I had come too far, up two too many flights of stairs to fail now. This is my battle and I shall fight. I summon all my cunning and guile, and I key in the code for the next column along.

The robot spirals twist and turn, pushing a Twix dangerously closer to my grasp. Would it take down the KitKat in its greedy embrace? YES! They fall gracelessly to earth and into my pawing clutches as if I were myself a vengeful god, presiding furiously over some chocolatey 9/11.

But what's this, I ask? The machine is still working! It has committed some kind of catering seppuku, and it will not stop vending! POW! POW POW! It is raining chocolate now, a monsoon of treats, and I have more sweet goodness than in even my filthiest and most revolting of dreams. Five bars! Five bars! I can scarcely believe my luck. This is literally the greatest moment of my life.

Stumbling punchdrunk into the photocopier, I instinctively soil my best trousers with glee, and I slow waltz outside for air. I am screaming now, screaming across the car park like a tiny girl having mistakenly happened upon the curious properties of bleach. My treasures, I wail! We are free!

Later they will find me, deep in the woods, deep in the crash of the sugarhole. Glucose beads trail across my mottled brow, my smart shirt torn away, and I am muttering incomprehensible vows to never meddle in these dark arts again. I shout and shout at the men around me as they put me in the van, but I don't think they will understand.

Back in the corridor, the chocolate machine whirs into life, inching forward a Picnic, holding just short of the void. 52p! Who can resist that?