[ WP ] There is a god in the machine . The photocopier machine , to be precise .

I fucking hate Mondays. It's no more monotonous or soul-draining than any other day at HershelFitz Accountancy Consultants, but, today is Monday. So fuck Monday. 
 
 `` Dave? Could you get that copy of the Blooms' quarter review for me? You said you'd have it on my desk by this morning.'' 
 
 `` Right away, Sharon. Sorry to keep you waiting.'' 
 
 Fuck Sharon. I bet she got rammed over the weekend. Some married guy that keeps promising to get the divorce and yet they're still meeting up at the sleaziest motel in town every Saturday night, like clockwork. Sad, pathetic clockwork. 
 
 `` Good, thanks. How was your weekend?'' 
 
 `` Fine. Yours?'' 
 
 She looks to the floor wantonly. Bingo. 
 
 `` Oh fine.. Hurry on that copy now.'' 
 
 Clickclick. Clickclick. The sound of her heels on the hard-tile floor is just too much for this time in the morning; not dissimilar from when your teeth accidentally scrape against each other in that specific, horrific way. It's all too much. In the cubicle next to me, the fuckwit ( Larry maybe? ) keeps clicking his pen. One click. Then two fast clicks. One click, two clicks. And the cubicle over the cunt Susan ( I only remember her because she got her name in the paper for losing her toe in a kitchen fire ) is cackling away, on the phone to her cunt friends while I'm being bitched at for not working through the weekend, the only days when I do n't feel like screaming in someones fucking face. 
 
 `` Dave?'' 
 
 `` I'M DOING IT!'' 
 
 The office goes silent. I clear my throat a little. 
 
 `` I wo n't be a minute.'' 
 
 The torrent of talking, typing and mindlessness resumes. I guess I'll copy this fucking thing. Maybe I'll rub my balls on it. Ha. No one's at the copier, thank fuck. If there's anything I hate more than most shit it's a fucking line. I tell you, much more of this and I'm gon na..'CHILL'... appears on the copier screen. 
 
 What? I jab the big, green print button a couple of times. No response. Steve's walking past. I'll get him to fix it. 
 
 `` Steve, you know how to work this thing. Can you help me out?'' 
 
 `` It looks fine to me. If it's jammed just tear the paper out,'' and continues on his way down the aisle. 
 
 `` I know but..'' The screen was back to normal. Weird. Again, I jab the big, green button. 
 
'Dave. This is God. We need to talk.' 
 
 What the shit? This was n't even clever. I bet this was Steve, that fuck says'durrr, it looks fine to me'. You try and prank me will you? Well prepare for fucking war you.. 
 
'This is not Steve trying to prank you. This is God. When you were seven you dressed up like Cher and you're Dad sent you saw you and sent you to Christian camp.' 
 
... God? Can you hear my thoughts? 
 
'Yes. And you're right, Sharon is fucking a married man.' 
 
 I knew it! Oh, err, about the fucked up shit I think.. 
 
'There's no time for that. I need you're help. I'm trapped in this copier machine. My only hope is if you destroy Satan.' 
 
 What?!? Seriously? *Me*? Why do n't you get you're angels to help? Or Steve? 
 
'Me and my angels are all trapped in the stationary and electronics around your office. Gabriel is your pencil. He says he does n't forgive you for the places you put him.' 
 
 This is awkward. Where's Satan then? Where is he, that bastard? 
 
'*She* is Sharon.' 
 
 At that moment, a hand touches my shoulder. 
 
 `` Is there a hold up Dave?'' Sharon's voice. 
 
 I immediately start laying into her. A right hook, another; then a left. 
 
 `` You monster! Let God out of the Copier! Let him out.'' 
 
 The police swiftly arrived and arrested a man they deemed *biblically insane*. Sharon was taken to hospital, they say we she wo n't make it through the night. No one could say quite what happened that day, and, as the last white-shirted worker turned off the lights and left the once uneventful office building, the copier machine screen booted up. 
 
'... stupid humans...'
