Swagazine #2

     Edmund walked up to the vending machine. He was thirsty, a natural reaction to intentionally dehydrating one's self for the sake of performance art. Although it was a bizarre spectacle to behold, it would later be agreed upon that the best description of the event was, in Edmund's own words, "Don't ask."

     He fished around in his pocket for change. The small circular disks of metal that we all know and love made various harmonic combinations of sound. He chuckled to himself, thinking of how he also loves to jingle coins in his pocket when he walks past homeless people on the street who have cardboard signs asking for his money. He never does it around the homeless people just sitting there, but the ones who ask for his money annoy him to some degree. "If I spend all of my money," he once said at a public lecture, "that doesn't give me the right to ask if I can have some of yours."

     Edmund grabbed a handful of change and examined the vending machine in front of him. Up until now he had assumed it was a soft drink machine, and now he was rather surprised at the strange concession that lay before him.

     "Human Heads," read the panel in bright, friendly letters. "Only 25 Cents!"

     "What a vile, disgusting concept," Edmund said, as he popped a quarter into the slot.

     Nothing happened.

     Edmund waited for a minute, and repeatedly pressed a few buttons on the panel. Still, nothing happened. He pressed the change return lever about seven times, to no avail. He began hitting the panel, thinking perhaps the quarter got stuck, and would magically fall down and activate the machine.

     "Gimmie back my quarter, you stupid piece of junk!"

     After a few minutes of hard-core vending machine abuse, a woman walked by, and commented, "If you want a refund, you have to go to the cashier's office. Tell them that the machine stole your money."

     "Thanks," Edmund replied, truly indebted to this person for their keen insight and inside information.

     As Edmund was walking down the corridor to get his refund, he noticed a small bucket sitting on the ground. He looked inside, and there was dirty, brown water. Suddenly, he realized that it could only mean one thing; his arch- enemy, Phil the Janitor, must be somewhere in the vicinity! Edmund quickly ran to the south wall, and weighed his options. He realized that he could either stay there in the corner, or go get his money back. "Life is so full of decisions, it can be so cruel!" he thought to himself.

     After careful assessment of the situation, it was decided upon that he should continue on his journey, and hope that he does not encounter his evil foe, Phil. As Edmund continued walking down the hallway, Phil the Janitor suddenly came out of a nearby office, wielding a garbage can.

     "Oh-ho, so we meet again!" Phil shouted, as he dropped the pail to the ground and whipped a plunger out of his belt.

     "Back off, Phil," Edmund retorted, "I have important business to attend to."

     "So do I, but you don't see me complaining, do you?" Phil said, and began to laugh maniacally.

     "What's funny? Why are you laughing?" Edmund inquired.

     "I guess you'll just have to find out for yourself, won't you?" Phil blurted back, as he continued his laughter.

     "Stop that! That's not funny! Stop laughing! That wasn't witty," Edmund noted.

     "Oh really? I guess the cat's out of the bag now, dearest enemy!" Phil replied amid several distinct chuckles.

     Edmund gave Phil a funny look. "You're not much of an antagonist. What kind of villain are you, anyway? You make bad cliches and pretend you're funny, and that's it."

     Phil stopped laughing. "What do you expect me to do? I'm a janitor, for God's sakes. I'm not exactly a powerhouse of mental and physical abilities. Until about three minutes ago, I was unclogging a Mighty Morphin' Power Ranger toy from one of the toilets."

     Edmund looked at the ground, then back at Phil. "Well... Look at me. I don't exactly have the best occupation either; there's not much call for a door-to-door burrito salesman these days. Most people nowadays just buy a jumbo case of frozen burritos at the wholesale store that will last them through the winter."

     "I hear ya, brother," sympathized Phil. "It's like my hand, for example. See this cut on my finger? I've had this cut for seven months now. Darn thing can't heal properly with all of those cleaning agents that I use, constantly coming in contact with it every day. Soap, Lysol, Liquid Plumber, you name it, I use it somewhere."

     "Uh..." Edmund stammered, "Er... Don't you wear gloves?"

     Phil paused. "Oh my God," he said, as he turned pale and ran out of the room.

     "You forgot your trash can," Edmund offered, but it was too late. "Hmm..." Edmund pondered the situation. "Well, I suppose I've won this battle," he thought to himself. "But the war isn't over yet."

     Edmund continued on his journey, and reached the cashier's office within a matter of minutes. He ventured inside, and went to one of the counters.

     "Hello," he said, "One of your machines has taken my money."

     "Look, I'm not responsible for that sort of thing. You've got a problem, you call the manufacturer. I just sell the darn things. And you don't have to make up a lie about being robbed by it, just because it didn't suit your needs." replied the cashier behind the counter, who was, incidentally, smacking gum rather loudly, which would have been distracting, had this story been an event in real life.

     "Er... I was told that if the vending machine took my--"

     "Oh, you meant the VENDING machines," she cut off Edmund in mid-sentence. "Oh, of course. I'm sorry. How much did it take?"

     "Wait, what's all this about other machines?" Edmund inquired.

     "Nothing, nevermind." said the clerk. "How much did the machine take? Oh, and which one was it?"

     "Uh..." replied Edmund, still curious about her original comment, "it took a quarter, and it was the Human Head vending machine in the south wing."

     "All right," said the cashier as she took a quarter from the cash drawer and put it in her pocket. "It looks like we're out of quarters, I'll have to go break open a new roll."

     "Okay," said Edmund, accepting his fate, because it was rather insignificant and not worth pondering over.

     After about 25 minutes, the cashier came back with a roll of quarters. "Here you are, sir," she said, as she held out a quarter using a pair of tongs.

     "OUCH!" Edmund shouted, as the white-hot quarter burnt an impression of George Washington into his thumb. "Why is it so hot?!" he shouted.

     "Whoops," said the clerk, "I knew I should have let it cool a little longer."

     More confused than ever, Edmund walked out of the office, his money literally burning a hole in his pocket. He eventually went back to the Human Head machine, where a guy was pounding on the panel. "Go to the cashier's office to get a refund," offered Edmund.

     "Is this supposed to be the plot-twist ending?" asked the guy. "A sort of symbolism about how everything eventually repeats itself? Is this representative of the cycles that we all lead in life, or perhaps even how there are a limited number of actions that we can lead in life, and we're bound to repeat others' mistakes?"

     "What?" asked Edmund, as he pulled the headphones out of his ears.

     "I said thank you," said the guy.

     "You're welcome," Edmund said with a smile, as he took a bite from a donut he had found in a nearby ashtray.