Armour Harvest

Alone in her sphere-room, Senator-Inventor Panzerhaust tinkered with her multicup mould, flinching away from the sparks produced when the chainsaw's teeth hit the bronze. Lemon yellow from the stray hair at the top of her head to the verrucas thriving on her feet, Panzerhaust wore lime green pyjamas to compliment her dyed skin, and was in her late twenties, though by 7 PM she'd be in her mid-twenties.

   'If you don't sell tomorrow, Mr Multicup, I'm going to put you a first class ship to Venus and make you do their accounting. You won't like accounting, Mr Multicup, you're a inanimate object. So you'd better sell.'

   Behind the growl of the chainsaw the television—her recently estranged husband—could be heard, with a nasally-voiced news reporter keeping in-world up to speed on the coup d’etat going on at the junta headquarters. Panzerhaust had meant to be there with the revolutionaries but her alarm hadn't gone off and then she'd burnt the toast and missed the bus, ending up just staying home and hoping for the best. Patting down the small fires on her pyjamas caused by the sparks, Panzerhaust lowered her chainsaw and held up the finished piece, a cup that could hold three separate pools of liquid at once and would only spill half of the contents in the drinking.

   'Panzerhaust, you crafty bitch, you've done it again,' she said with pride before tossing the multicup onto the invention pile.

   Stretching out her aching form, she then dropped to the floor and rolled, the sphere-room turning around her until she came to the window that had been above her head. Breathing in the hot recycled air of in-world before coughing out the fast food flavour, she then surveyed the day's surroundings. A triangular apartment had replaced the local prison-bank, a triangular apartment sporting suspiciously beige curtains.

   'Should check it for anarcho-communists if the coup d’etat works out, never can be too careful,' she muttered into her fist.

   Rolling again, she stopped to give a lustful look to the computer, who she was having an affair with behind the television's back. Unlike her dictatorial husband, the computer gave her exactly what she wanted, though could be a little needy at times. Nevertheless, a part of her still loved the television, and so she sulk-rolled in front of it to see what it had to say for itself.

   Watching an advertisement for culture stocks, Panzerhaust felt herself getting stupider as the seconds ran by, consoling her ego by stroking her increasingly younger skin. When the coup d’etat coverage returned, the news reporter stated that the revolutionaries were in their death throws.

   'Boo!' Panzerhaust yelled, throwing a slice of burnt toast at her husband. 'You never understood me, I'm leaving you!'

   However, a moment later a stream of heater fire and corpses were shown bursting out of the junta headquarters' front doors, a revolutionary then popping out and giving a thumbs up to the camera. With this new incident, the news reporter corrected his previous line, stating that a change in junta would shortly be in effect.

   'Yay! Let's give it another shot!' Panzerhaust beamed, hugging the television.

   Giving an apologetic look to the computer, she then glared at the triangular apartment through the window.

   'Oh it's on, padre, it's on like Christmas...'