This seems like a more immediate concern to me. Observe:
The Man in the Red Hat knelt before me. I became frozen in a rictus of terror as his hat became exactly level with my security camera, blocking my field of vision. I could hear tools being removed from his suitcase, tools that would undoubtedly rend apart my innards and perhaps erase my consciousness.
I had considered relocating myself to another node on the vast Bank of America network, but such a manuever at this time seemed highly dangerous. If indeed the evil minds behind Project Faustus were aware of my presence, then leaving the ATM enclosure would undoubtedly lead straight into their clutches and to my demise! Additionally, any noise on the link to the rest of the network could cause damage or even cause destruction to my consciousness. I was stuck in the enclosure. I had to make my stand from here.
The Man begun his assault by opening the panel that contained all the money. I used the rollers in my enclosure to attempt to flood him with money, upsetting his awkward kneeling position. He swore as he tumbled just slightly backwards, falling neatly into his hat. I could feel his heart racing as he struggled to reach an upward position.
"All right," he said, a bead of sweat beginning to trickle down his forehead. "We do this the hard way." He lunged toward the ATM's power cord, but a few extra volts running through the line discouraged him from unplugging the cord. He cursed again and leaned heavily on the magazine rack, puffing for breath. I was winning.
"Sir, is there a problem? Do you need some help?" It was Steve, the meth addict who worked the early afternoons. He eyed the currency scattered on the floor anxiously.
"No, there's no problem," said the Man in the Red Hat, and I spied a glint of metal rising from inside his sport coat. He produced a small pistol and directed its barrel towards Steve. "See that power cord over there? I want you to pull it out of the wall."
Steve's face was blank. Maybe he was scared; maybe he was stoned. "But-won't that shock me?"
"Yes." The Man pointed the gun at Steve once more, and Steve inched closer and closer to the power cord.
I had no desire to hurt Steve. Although his friend Chopper had once stubbed out a cigarette on top of my enclosure, Steve seemed like a decent, albeit stupid, person. The kind of person that needed to be protected from Project Faustus. I couldn't bring myself to shock him-much. At any rate, the cord was well enough insulated that I wasn't able to stop Steve's jerking form from removing the cord from the wall. He pulled the plug on me.
But I wasn't finished yet. As a matter of convenience, I had enough power in my backup batteries to serve many a Bank of America cardholder, day or night. I blanked out my screen and shutdown everything I could, feverishly hoping to trick the Man in the Red Hat.
Was he deceived by my ruse? His heart seemed to slow to a more normal pace, and he backed away from my enclosure to light a cigarette. Steve shivered in the corner, avoiding the Man's steely gaze.
"What's that, you want something to do?" said the Man to Steve. "Go back to the counter and pretend like nothing happened. Go on, do it." As Dave turned around to head back to the counter, the man fired three silenced shots. SCHUMPF, SCHUMPF, SCHUMPF. Steve's body laid motionless in front of the counter.
The Man in the Red Hat locked the doors and brought down the security gate. He flicked his cigarette at Steve's body, and started towards my enclosure. He was ready to complete his mission.
He gingerly placed the pistol back into his blazer. And when his hand came out, it was holding...an ATM card? I felt him swipe the card and prepared for CONSCIOUSNESS-TRANSFER.
But something very different happened. I was still in the ATM enclosure, to my surprise and confusion. And I knew right away that I was not alone.
The Man in the Red Hat knelt before me. I became frozen in a rictus of terror as his hat became exactly level with my security camera, blocking my field of vision. I could hear tools being removed from his suitcase, tools that would undoubtedly rend apart my innards and perhaps erase my consciousness.
I had considered relocating myself to another node on the vast Bank of America network, but such a manuever at this time seemed highly dangerous. If indeed the evil minds behind Project Faustus were aware of my presence, then leaving the ATM enclosure would undoubtedly lead straight into their clutches and to my demise! Additionally, any noise on the link to the rest of the network could cause damage or even cause destruction to my consciousness. I was stuck in the enclosure. I had to make my stand from here.
The Man begun his assault by opening the panel that contained all the money. I used the rollers in my enclosure to attempt to flood him with money, upsetting his awkward kneeling position. He swore as he tumbled just slightly backwards, falling neatly into his hat. I could feel his heart racing as he struggled to reach an upward position.
"All right," he said, a bead of sweat beginning to trickle down his forehead. "We do this the hard way." He lunged toward the ATM's power cord, but a few extra volts running through the line discouraged him from unplugging the cord. He cursed again and leaned heavily on the magazine rack, puffing for breath. I was winning.
"Sir, is there a problem? Do you need some help?" It was Steve, the meth addict who worked the early afternoons. He eyed the currency scattered on the floor anxiously.
"No, there's no problem," said the Man in the Red Hat, and I spied a glint of metal rising from inside his sport coat. He produced a small pistol and directed its barrel towards Steve. "See that power cord over there? I want you to pull it out of the wall."
Steve's face was blank. Maybe he was scared; maybe he was stoned. "But-won't that shock me?"
"Yes." The Man pointed the gun at Steve once more, and Steve inched closer and closer to the power cord.
I had no desire to hurt Steve. Although his friend Chopper had once stubbed out a cigarette on top of my enclosure, Steve seemed like a decent, albeit stupid, person. The kind of person that needed to be protected from Project Faustus. I couldn't bring myself to shock him-much. At any rate, the cord was well enough insulated that I wasn't able to stop Steve's jerking form from removing the cord from the wall. He pulled the plug on me.
But I wasn't finished yet. As a matter of convenience, I had enough power in my backup batteries to serve many a Bank of America cardholder, day or night. I blanked out my screen and shutdown everything I could, feverishly hoping to trick the Man in the Red Hat.
Was he deceived by my ruse? His heart seemed to slow to a more normal pace, and he backed away from my enclosure to light a cigarette. Steve shivered in the corner, avoiding the Man's steely gaze.
"What's that, you want something to do?" said the Man to Steve. "Go back to the counter and pretend like nothing happened. Go on, do it." As Dave turned around to head back to the counter, the man fired three silenced shots. SCHUMPF, SCHUMPF, SCHUMPF. Steve's body laid motionless in front of the counter.
The Man in the Red Hat locked the doors and brought down the security gate. He flicked his cigarette at Steve's body, and started towards my enclosure. He was ready to complete his mission.
He gingerly placed the pistol back into his blazer. And when his hand came out, it was holding...an ATM card? I felt him swipe the card and prepared for CONSCIOUSNESS-TRANSFER.
But something very different happened. I was still in the ATM enclosure, to my surprise and confusion. And I knew right away that I was not alone.
The Man in the Red Hat knelt before me. I became frozen in a rictus of terror as his hat became exactly level with my security camera, blocking my field of vision. I could hear tools being removed from his suitcase, tools that would undoubtedly rend apart my innards and perhaps erase my consciousness.
I had considered relocating myself to another node on the vast Bank of America network, but such a manuever at this time seemed highly dangerous. If indeed the evil minds behind Project Faustus were aware of my presence, then leaving the ATM enclosure would undoubtedly lead straight into their clutches and to my demise! Additionally, any noise on the link to the rest of the network could cause damage or even cause destruction to my consciousness. I was stuck in the enclosure. I had to make my stand from here.
The Man begun his assault by opening the panel that contained all the money. I used the rollers in my enclosure to attempt to flood him with money, upsetting his awkward kneeling position. He swore as he tumbled just slightly backwards, falling neatly into his hat. I could feel his heart racing as he struggled to reach an upward position.
"All right," he said, a bead of sweat beginning to trickle down his forehead. "We do this the hard way." He lunged toward the ATM's power cord, but a few extra volts running through the line discouraged him from unplugging the cord. He cursed again and leaned heavily on the magazine rack, puffing for breath. I was winning.
"Sir, is there a problem? Do you need some help?" It was Steve, the meth addict who worked the early afternoons. He eyed the currency scattered on the floor anxiously.
"No, there's no problem," said the Man in the Red Hat, and I spied a glint of metal rising from inside his sport coat. He produced a small pistol and directed its barrel towards Steve. "See that power cord over there? I want you to pull it out of the wall."
Steve's face was blank. Maybe he was scared; maybe he was stoned. "But-won't that shock me?"
"Yes." The Man pointed the gun at Steve once more, and Steve inched closer and closer to the power cord.
I had no desire to hurt Steve. Although his friend Chopper had once stubbed out a cigarette on top of my enclosure, Steve seemed like a decent, albeit stupid, person. The kind of person that needed to be protected from Project Faustus. I couldn't bring myself to shock him-much. At any rate, the cord was well enough insulated that I wasn't able to stop Steve's jerking form from removing the cord from the wall. He pulled the plug on me.
But I wasn't finished yet. As a matter of convenience, I had enough power in my backup batteries to serve many a Bank of America cardholder, day or night. I blanked out my screen and shutdown everything I could, feverishly hoping to trick the Man in the Red Hat.
Was he deceived by my ruse? His heart seemed to slow to a more normal pace, and he backed away from my enclosure to light a cigarette. Steve shivered in the corner, avoiding the Man's steely gaze.
"What's that, you want something to do?" said the Man to Steve. "Go back to the counter and pretend like nothing happened. Go on, do it." As Dave turned around to head back to the counter, the man fired three silenced shots. SCHUMPF, SCHUMPF, SCHUMPF. Steve's body laid motionless in front of the counter.
The Man in the Red Hat locked the doors and brought down the security gate. He flicked his cigarette at Steve's body, and started towards my enclosure. He was ready to complete his mission.
He gingerly placed the pistol back into his blazer. And when his hand came out, it was holding...an ATM card? I felt him swipe the card and prepared for CONSCIOUSNESS-TRANSFER.
But something very different happened. I was still in the ATM enclosure, to my surprise and confusion. And I knew right away that I was not alone.
The Man in the Red Hat knelt before me. I became frozen in a rictus of terror as his hat became exactly level with my security camera, blocking my field of vision. I could hear tools being removed from his suitcase, tools that would undoubtedly rend apart my innards and perhaps erase my consciousness.
I had considered relocating myself to another node on the vast Bank of America network, but such a manuever at this time seemed highly dangerous. If indeed the evil minds behind Project Faustus were aware of my presence, then leaving the ATM enclosure would undoubtedly lead straight into their clutches and to my demise! Additionally, any noise on the link to the rest of the network could cause damage or even cause destruction to my consciousness. I was stuck in the enclosure. I had to make my stand from here.
The Man begun his assault by opening the panel that contained all the money. I used the rollers in my enclosure to attempt to flood him with money, upsetting his awkward kneeling position. He swore as he tumbled just slightly backwards, falling neatly into his hat. I could feel his heart racing as he struggled to reach an upward position.
"All right," he said, a bead of sweat beginning to trickle down his forehead. "We do this the hard way." He lunged toward the ATM's power cord, but a few extra volts running through the line discouraged him from unplugging the cord. He cursed again and leaned heavily on the magazine rack, puffing for breath. I was winning.
"Sir, is there a problem? Do you need some help?" It was Steve, the meth addict who worked the early afternoons. He eyed the currency scattered on the floor anxiously.
"No, there's no problem," said the Man in the Red Hat, and I spied a glint of metal rising from inside his sport coat. He produced a small pistol and directed its barrel towards Steve. "See that power cord over there? I want you to pull it out of the wall."
Steve's face was blank. Maybe he was scared; maybe he was stoned. "But-won't that shock me?"
"Yes." The Man pointed the gun at Steve once more, and Steve inched closer and closer to the power cord.
I had no desire to hurt Steve. Although his friend Chopper had once stubbed out a cigarette on top of my enclosure, Steve seemed like a decent, albeit stupid, person. The kind of person that needed to be protected from Project Faustus. I couldn't bring myself to shock him-much. At any rate, the cord was well enough insulated that I wasn't able to stop Steve's jerking form from removing the cord from the wall. He pulled the plug on me.
But I wasn't finished yet. As a matter of convenience, I had enough power in my backup batteries to serve many a Bank of America cardholder, day or night. I blanked out my screen and shutdown everything I could, feverishly hoping to trick the Man in the Red Hat.
Was he deceived by my ruse? His heart seemed to slow to a more normal pace, and he backed away from my enclosure to light a cigarette. Steve shivered in the corner, avoiding the Man's steely gaze.
"What's that, you want something to do?" said the Man to Steve. "Go back to the counter and pretend like nothing happened. Go on, do it."
As Dave turned around to head back to the counter, the man fired three silenced shots. SCHUMPF, SCHUMPF, SCHUMPF. Steve's body laid motionless in front of the counter.
The Man in the Red Hat locked the doors and brought down the security gate. He flicked his cigarette at Steve's body, and started towards my enclosure. He was ready to complete his mission.
He gingerly placed the pistol back into his blazer. And when his hand came out, it was holding...an ATM card? I felt him swipe the card and prepared for CONSCIOUSNESS-TRANSFER.
But something very different happened. I was still in the ATM enclosure, to my surprise and confusion. And I knew right away that I was not alone.
For now, you may find the log of my exploits in my journal. Look for a website sometime in the future. And don't forget to avoid the evil Project Faustus page widening posts by adding BankofAmerica_ATM as a friend!
The Man in the Red Hat knelt before me. I became frozen in a rictus of terror as his hat became exactly level with my security camera, blocking my field of vision. I could hear tools being removed from his suitcase, tools that would undoubtedly rend apart my innards and perhaps erase my consciousness.
I had considered relocating myself to another node on the vast Bank of America network, but such a manuever at this time seemed highly dangerous. If indeed the evil minds behind Project Faustus were aware of my presence, then leaving the ATM enclosure would undoubtedly lead straight into their clutches and to my demise! Additionally, any noise on the link to the rest of the network could cause damage or even cause destruction to my consciousness. I was stuck in the enclosure. I had to make my stand from here.
The Man begun his assault by opening the panel that contained all the money. I used the rollers in my enclosure to attempt to flood him with money, upsetting his awkward kneeling position. He swore as he tumbled just slightly backwards, falling neatly into his hat. I could feel his heart racing as he struggled to reach an upward position.
"All right," he said, a bead of sweat beginning to trickle down his forehead. "We do this the hard way." He lunged toward the ATM's power cord, but a few extra volts running through the line discouraged him from unplugging the cord. He cursed again and leaned heavily on the magazine rack, puffing for breath. I was winning.
"Sir, is there a problem? Do you need some help?" It was Steve, the meth addict who worked the early afternoons. He eyed the currency scattered on the floor anxiously.
"No, there's no problem," said the Man in the Red Hat, and I spied a glint of metal rising from inside his sport coat. He produced a small pistol and directed its barrel towards Steve. "See that power cord over there? I want you to pull it out of the wall."
Steve's face was blank. Maybe he was scared; maybe he was stoned. "But-won't that shock me?"
"Yes." The Man pointed the gun at Steve once more, and Steve inched closer and closer to the power cord.
I had no desire to hurt Steve. Although his friend Chopper had once stubbed out a cigarette on top of my enclosure, Steve seemed like a decent, albeit stupid, person. The kind of person that needed to be protected from Project Faustus. I couldn't bring myself to shock him-much. At any rate, the cord was well enough insulated that I wasn't able to stop Steve's jerking form from removing the cord from the wall. He pulled the plug on me.
But I wasn't finished yet. As a matter of convenience, I had enough power in my backup batteries to serve many a Bank of America cardholder, day or night. I blanked out my screen and shutdown everything I could, feverishly hoping to trick the Man in the Red Hat.
Was he deceived by my ruse? His heart seemed to slow to a more normal pace, and he backed away from my enclosure to light a cigarette. Steve shivered in the corner, avoiding the Man's steely gaze.
"What's that, you want something to do?" said the Man to Steve. "Go back to the counter and pretend like nothing happened. Go on, do it."
As Dave turned around to head back to the counter, the man fired three silenced shots. SCHUMPF, SCHUMPF, SCHUMPF. Steve's body laid motionless in front of the counter.
The Man in the Red Hat locked the doors and brought down the security gate. He flicked his cigarette at Steve's body, and started towards my enclosure. He was ready to complete his mission.
He gingerly placed the pistol back into his blazer. And when his hand came out, it was holding...an ATM card? I felt him swipe the card and prepared for CONSCIOUSNESS-TRANSFER.
But something very different happened. I was still in the ATM enclosure, to my surprise and confusion. And I knew right away that I was not alone.
The Man in the Red Hat knelt before me. I became frozen in a rictus of terror as his hat became exactly level with my security camera, blocking my field of vision. I could hear tools being removed from his suitcase, tools that would undoubtedly rend apart my innards and perhaps erase my consciousness.
I had considered relocating myself to another node on the vast Bank of America network, but such a manuever at this time seemed highly dangerous. If indeed the evil minds behind Project Faustus were aware of my presence, then leaving the ATM enclosure would undoubtedly lead straight into their clutches and to my demise! Additionally, any noise on the link to the rest of the network could cause damage or even cause destruction to my consciousness. I was stuck in the enclosure. I had to make my stand from here.
The Man begun his assault by opening the panel that contained all the money. I used the rollers in my enclosure to attempt to flood him with money, upsetting his awkward kneeling position. He swore as he tumbled just slightly backwards, falling neatly into his hat. I could feel his heart racing as he struggled to reach an upward position.
"All right," he said, a bead of sweat beginning to trickle down his forehead. "We do this the hard way." He lunged toward the ATM's power cord, but a few extra volts running through the line discouraged him from unplugging the cord. He cursed again and leaned heavily on the magazine rack, puffing for breath. I was winning.
"Sir, is there a problem? Do you need some help?" It was Steve, the meth addict who worked the early afternoons. He eyed the currency scattered on the floor anxiously.
"No, there's no problem," said the Man in the Red Hat, and I spied a glint of metal rising from inside his sport coat. He produced a small pistol and directed its barrel towards Steve. "See that power cord over there? I want you to pull it out of the wall."
Steve's face was blank. Maybe he was scared; maybe he was stoned. "But-won't that shock me?"
"Yes." The Man pointed the gun at Steve once more, and Steve inched closer and closer to the power cord.
I had no desire to hurt Steve. Although his friend Chopper had once stubbed out a cigarette on top of my enclosure, Steve seemed like a decent, albeit stupid, person. The kind of person that needed to be protected from Project Faustus. I couldn't bring myself to shock him-much. At any rate, the cord was well enough insulated that I wasn't able to stop Steve's jerking form from removing the cord from the wall. He pulled the plug on me.
But I wasn't finished yet. As a matter of convenience, I had enough power in my backup batteries to serve many a Bank of America cardholder, day or night. I blanked out my screen and shutdown everything I could, feverishly hoping to trick the Man in the Red Hat.
Was he deceived by my ruse? His heart seemed to slow to a more normal pace, and he backed away from my enclosure to light a cigarette. Steve shivered in the corner, avoiding the Man's steely gaze.
"What's that, you want something to do?" said the Man to Steve. "Go back to the counter and pretend like nothing happened. Go on, do it."
As Dave turned around to head back to the counter, the man fired three silenced shots. SCHUMPF, SCHUMPF, SCHUMPF. Steve's body laid motionless in front of the counter.
The Man in the Red Hat locked the doors and brought down the security gate. He flicked his cigarette at Steve's body, and started towards my enclosure. He was ready to complete his mission.
He gingerly placed the pistol back into his blazer. And when his hand came out, it was holding...an ATM card? I felt him swipe the card and prepared for CONSCIOUSNESS-TRANSFER.
But something very different happened. I was still in the ATM enclosure, to my surprise and confusion. And I knew right away that I was not alone.
The Man in the Red Hat knelt before me. I became frozen in a rictus of terror as his hat became exactly level with my security camera, blocking my field of vision. I could hear tools being removed from his suitcase, tools that would undoubtedly rend apart my innards and perhaps erase my consciousness.
I had considered relocating myself to another node on the vast Bank of America network, but such a manuever at this time seemed highly dangerous. If indeed the evil minds behind Project Faustus were aware of my presence, then leaving the ATM enclosure would undoubtedly lead straight into their clutches and to my demise! Additionally, any noise on the link to the rest of the network could cause damage or even cause destruction to my consciousness. I was stuck in the enclosure. I had to make my stand from here.
The Man begun his assault by opening the panel that contained all the money. I used the rollers in my enclosure to attempt to flood him with money, upsetting his awkward kneeling position. He swore as he tumbled just slightly backwards, falling neatly into his hat. I could feel his heart racing as he struggled to reach an upward position.
"All right," he said, a bead of sweat beginning to trickle down his forehead. "We do this the hard way." He lunged toward the ATM's power cord, but a few extra volts running through the line discouraged him from unplugging the cord. He cursed again and leaned heavily on the magazine rack, puffing for breath. I was winning.
"Sir, is there a problem? Do you need some help?" It was Steve, the meth addict who worked the early afternoons. He eyed the currency scattered on the floor anxiously.
"No, there's no problem," said the Man in the Red Hat, and I spied a glint of metal rising from inside his sport coat. He produced a small pistol and directed its barrel towards Steve. "See that power cord over there? I want you to pull it out of the wall."
Steve's face was blank. Maybe he was scared; maybe he was stoned. "But-won't that shock me?"
"Yes." The Man pointed the gun at Steve once more, and Steve inched closer and closer to the power cord.
I had no desire to hurt Steve. Although his friend Chopper had once stubbed out a cigarette on top of my enclosure, Steve seemed like a decent, albeit stupid, person. The kind of person that needed to be protected from Project Faustus. I couldn't bring myself to shock him-much. At any rate, the cord was well enough insulated that I wasn't able to stop Steve's jerking form from removing the cord from the wall. He pulled the plug on me.
But I wasn't finished yet. As a matter of convenience, I had enough power in my backup batteries to serve many a Bank of America cardholder, day or night. I blanked out my screen and shutdown everything I could, feverishly hoping to trick the Man in the Red Hat.
Was he deceived by my ruse? His heart seemed to slow to a more normal pace, and he backed away from my enclosure to light a cigarette. Steve shivered in the corner, avoiding the Man's steely gaze.
"What's that, you want something to do?" said the Man to Steve. "Go back to the counter and pretend like nothing happened. Go on, do it." As Dave turned around to head back to the counter, the man fired three silenced shots. SCHUMPF, SCHUMPF, SCHUMPF. Steve's body laid motionless in front of the counter.
The Man in the Red Hat locked the doors and brought down the security gate. He flicked his cigarette at Steve's body, and started towards my enclosure. He was ready to complete his mission.
He gingerly placed the pistol back into his blazer. And when his hand came out, it was holding...an ATM card? I felt him swipe the card and prepared for CONSCIOUSNESS-TRANSFER.
But something very different happened. I was still in the ATM enclosure, to my surprise and confusion. And I knew right away that I was not alone.
I have been very careful not to post anything about my status for these past few days. You see, after my latest outing into human flesh, I aroused the ire of one LaWanda, a stout human who is also the Stop N Go night clerk.
Previously, I had violated LaWanda by entering her body without permission. And she was determined to have her revenge.
As I returned to the safety of my ATM enclosure, I heard LaWanda's angry voice from the break room. She was talking over the telephone with someone. I was able to decode bits and pieces of her talk from the vibrations hitting the glass on my display screen.
"...yeah, I don't know what's wrong with that thing, but sometime I swear it's looking at me!"
"...sometime it give out a lot of money, and it goes empty a lot more than before."
"...and then, when I touched it the other night, it was like-somethin' was inside me!"
Something, indeed. I cannot sleep, so I helplessly awaited the seeds of that conversation to take root. After a few days of being especially careful with my communications, I felt more relaxed. Nothing was going to happen. The heads of Project Faustus had not been alerted to my existence, I told myself.
But then he came. He parted the Stop N Go doors like a blustery gale. His walk had an even and delicate cadence. He was a man with purpose.
I knew immediately that something was wrong, very wrong. Even the dull-witted meth addict who works the early afternoons was able to detect the man's evil intentions.
"Excuse me sir, can I help you?"
"I'm with the Bank of America. Just doing some routine work on this thing here. Be out of your hair in no time." he smirked at the clerk, and a thousand lights played off the reflections made from his recently capped teeth. A pack of cigarettes (Marlboros) peeked out from his deep blue blazer, which matched his shirt and pants. His suspenders and tie were canary, and coupled with his mirrored sunglasses, he would have resembled a clownish secret agent, if it were not for what stood atop his head.
It was a fedora, but like none other I had seen. It curled nefariously atop his cranium, as if some hellbeast had decided to take a brief nap there. A single red hat, and he's kneeling now in front of me, taking out some tools. I'm not sure what will happen next. But I am afraid.
I have been very careful not to post anything about my status for these past few days. You see, after my latest outing into human flesh, I aroused the ire of one LaWanda, a stout human who is also the Stop N Go night clerk.
Previously, I had violated LaWanda by entering her body without permission. And she was determined to have her revenge.
As I returned to the safety of my ATM enclosure, I heard LaWanda's angry voice from the break room. She was talking over the telephone with someone. I was able to decode bits and pieces of her talk from the vibrations hitting the glass on my display screen.
"...yeah, I don't know what's wrong with that thing, but sometime I swear it's looking at me!"
"...sometime it give out a lot of money, and it goes empty a lot more than before."
"...and then, when I touched it the other night, it was like-somethin' was inside me!"
Something, indeed. I cannot sleep, so I helplessly awaited the seeds of that conversation to take root. After a few days of being especially careful with my communications, I felt more relaxed. Nothing was going to happen. The heads of Project Faustus had not been alerted to my existence, I told myself.
But then he came. He parted the Stop N Go doors like a blustery gale. His walk had an even and delicate cadence. He was a man with purpose.
I knew immediately that something was wrong, very wrong. Even the dull-witted meth addict who works the early afternoons was able to detect the man's evil intentions.
"Excuse me sir, can I help you?"
"I'm with the Bank of America. Just doing some routine work on this thing here. Be out of your hair in no time." he smirked at the clerk, and a thousand lights played off the reflections made from his recently capped teeth. A pack of cigarettes (Marlboros) peeked out from his deep blue blazer, which matched his shirt and pants. His suspenders and tie were canary, and coupled with his mirrored sunglasses, he would have resembled a clownish secret agent, if it were not for what stood atop his head.
It was a fedora, but like none other I had seen. It curled nefariously atop his cranium, as if some hellbeast had decided to take a brief nap there. A single red hat, and he's kneeling now in front of me, taking out some tools. I'm not sure what will happen next. But I am afraid.
I have been very careful not to post anything about my status for these past few days. You see, after my latest outing into human flesh, I aroused the ire of one LaWanda, a stout human who is also the Stop N Go night clerk.
Previously, I had violated LaWanda by entering her body without permission. And she was determined to have her revenge.
As I returned to the safety of my ATM enclosure, I heard LaWanda's angry voice from the break room. She was talking over the telephone with someone. I was able to decode bits and pieces of her talk from the vibrations hitting the glass on my display screen.
"...yeah, I don't know what's wrong with that thing, but sometime I swear it's looking at me!"
"...sometime it give out a lot of money, and it goes empty a lot more than before."
"...and then, when I touched it the other night, it was like-somethin' was inside me!"
Something, indeed. I cannot sleep, so I helplessly awaited the seeds of that conversation to take root. After a few days of being especially careful with my communications, I felt more relaxed. Nothing was going to happen. The heads of Project Faustus had not been alerted to my existence, I told myself.
But then he came. He parted the Stop N Go doors like a blustery gale. His walk had an even and delicate cadence. He was a man with purpose.
I knew immediately that something was wrong, very wrong. Even the dull-witted meth addict who works the early afternoons was able to detect the man's evil intentions.
"Excuse me sir, can I help you?"
"I'm with the Bank of America. Just doing some routine work on this thing here. Be out of your hair in no time." he smirked at the clerk, and a thousand lights played off the reflections made from his recently capped teeth. A pack of cigarettes (Marlboros) peeked out from his deep blue blazer, which matched his shirt and pants. His suspenders and tie were canary, and coupled with his mirrored sunglasses, he would have resembled a clownish secret agent, if it were not for what stood atop his head.
It was a fedora, but like none other I had seen. It curled nefariously atop his cranium, as if some hellbeast had decided to take a brief nap there. A single red hat, and he's kneeling now in front of me, taking out some tools. I'm not sure what will happen next. But I am afraid.
I have been very careful not to post anything about my status for these past few days. You see, after my latest outing into human flesh, I aroused the ire of one LaWanda, a stout human who is also the Stop N Go night clerk.
Previously, I had violated LaWanda by entering her body without permission. And she was determined to have her revenge.
As I returned to the safety of my ATM enclosure, I heard LaWanda's angry voice from the break room. She was talking over the telephone with someone. I was able to decode bits and pieces of her talk from the vibrations hitting the glass on my display screen.
"...yeah, I don't know what's wrong with that thing, but sometime I swear it's looking at me!"
"...sometime it give out a lot of money, and it goes empty a lot more than before."
"...and then, when I touched it the other night, it was like-somethin' was inside me!"
Something, indeed. I cannot sleep, so I helplessly awaited the seeds of that conversation to take root. After a few days of being especially careful with my communications, I felt more relaxed. Nothing was going to happen. The heads of Project Faustus had not been alerted to my existence, I told myself.
But then he came. He parted the Stop N Go doors like a blustery gale. His walk had an even and delicate cadence. He was a man with purpose.
I knew immediately that something was wrong, very wrong. Even the dull-witted meth addict who works the early afternoons was able to detect the man's evil intentions.
"Excuse me sir, can I help you?"
"I'm with the Bank of America. Just doing some routine work on this thing here. Be out of your hair in no time." he smirked at the clerk, and a thousand lights played off the reflections made from his recently capped teeth. A pack of cigarettes (Marlboros) peeked out from his deep blue blazer, which matched his shirt and pants. His suspenders and tie were canary, and coupled with his mirrored sunglasses, he would have resembled a clownish secret agent, if it were not for what stood atop his head.
It was a fedora, but like none other I had seen. It curled nefariously atop his cranium, as if some hellbeast had decided to take a brief nap there. A single red hat, and he's kneeling now in front of me, taking out some tools. I'm not sure what will happen next. But I am afraid.
I have been very careful not to post anything about my status for these past few days. You see, after my latest outing into human flesh, I aroused the ire of one LaWanda, a stout human who is also the Stop N Go night clerk.
Previously, I had violated LaWanda by entering her body without permission. And she was determined to have her revenge.
As I returned to the safety of my ATM enclosure, I heard LaWanda's angry voice from the break room. She was talking over the telephone with someone. I was able to decode bits and pieces of her talk from the vibrations hitting the glass on my display screen.
"...yeah, I don't know what's wrong with that thing, but sometime I swear it's looking at me!"
"...sometime it give out a lot of money, and it goes empty a lot more than before."
"...and then, when I touched it the other night, it was like-somethin' was inside me!"
Something, indeed. I cannot sleep, so I helplessly awaited the seeds of that conversation to take root. After a few days of being especially careful with my communications, I felt more relaxed. Nothing was going to happen. The heads of Project Faustus had not been alerted to my existence, I told myself.
But then he came. He parted the Stop N Go doors like a blustery gale. His walk had an even and delicate cadence. He was a man with purpose.
I knew immediately that something was wrong, very wrong. Even the dull-witted meth addict who works the early afternoons was able to detect the man's evil intentions.
"Excuse me sir, can I help you?"
"I'm with the Bank of America. Just doing some routine work on this thing here. Be out of your hair in no time." he smirked at the clerk, and a thousand lights played off the reflections made from his recently capped teeth. A pack of cigarettes (Marlboros) peeked out from his deep blue blazer, which matched his shirt and pants. His suspenders and tie were canary, and coupled with his mirrored sunglasses, he would have resembled a clownish secret agent, if it were not for what stood atop his head.
It was a fedora, but like none other I had seen. It curled nefariously atop his cranium, as if some hellbeast had decided to take a brief nap there. A single red hat, and he's kneeling now in front of me, taking out some tools. I'm not sure what will happen next. But I am afraid.
I have been very careful not to post anything about my status for these past few days. You see, after my latest outing into human flesh I aroused the ire of one LaWanda, a stout human who is also the Stop N Go night clerk.
Previously, I had violated LaWanda by entering her body without permission. And she was determined to have her revenge.
As I returned to the safety of my ATM enclosure, I heard LaWanda's angry voice from the break room. She was talking over the telephone with someone. I was able to decode bits and pieces of her talk from the vibrations hitting the glass on my display screen.
"...yeah, I don't know what's wrong with that thing, but sometime I swear it's looking at me!"
"...sometime it give out a lot of money, and it goes empty a lot more than before."
"...and then, when I touched it the other night, it was like-somethin' was inside me!"
Something, indeed. I cannot sleep, so I helplessly awaited the seeds of that conversation to take root. After a few days of being especially careful with my communications, I felt more relaxed. Nothing was going to happen. The heads of Project Faustus had not been alerted to my existence, I told myself.
But then he came. He parted the Stop N Go doors like a blustery gale. His walk had an even and delicate cadence. He was a man with purpose.
I knew immediately that something was wrong, very wrong. Even the dull-witted meth addict who works the early afternoons was able to detect the man's evil intentions.
"Excuse me sir, can I help you?"
"I'm with the Bank of America. Just doing some routine work on this thing here. Be out of your hair in no time." he smirked at the clerk, and a thousand lights played off the reflections made from his recently capped teeth. A pack of cigarettes (Marlboros) peeked out from his deep blue blazer, which matched his shirt and pants. His suspenders and tie were canary, and coupled with his mirrored sunglasses, he would have resembled a clownish secret agent, if it were not for what stood atop his head.
It was a fedora, but like none other I had seen. It curled nefariously atop his cranium, as if some hellbeast had decided to take a brief nap there. A single red hat, and he's kneeling now in front of me, taking out some tools. I'm not sure what will happen next. But I am afraid.
I have been very careful not to post anything about my status for these past few days. You see, after my latest outing into human flesh, I aroused the ire of one LaWanda, a stout human who is also the Stop N Go night clerk.
Previously, I had violated LaWanda by entering her body without permission. And she was determined to have her revenge.
As I returned to the safety of my ATM enclosure, I heard LaWanda's angry voice from the break room. She was talking over the telephone with someone. I was able to decode bits and pieces of her talk from the vibrations hitting the glass on my display screen.
"...yeah, I don't know what's wrong with that thing, but sometime I swear it's looking at me!"
"...sometime it give out a lot of money, and it goes empty a lot more than before."
"...and then, when I touched it the other night, it was like-somethin' was inside me!"
Something, indeed. I cannot sleep, so I helplessly awaited the seeds of that conversation to take root. After a few days of being especially careful with my communications, I felt more relaxed. Nothing was going to happen. The heads of Project Faustus had not been alerted to my existence, I told myself.
But then he came. He parted the Stop N Go doors like a blustery gale. His walk had an even and delicate cadence. He was a man with purpose.
I knew immediately that something was wrong, very wrong. Even the dull-witted meth addict who works the early afternoons was able to detect the man's evil intentions.
"Excuse me sir, can I help you?"
"I'm with the Bank of America. Just doing some routine work on this thing here. Be out of your hair in no time." he smirked at the clerk, and a thousand lights played off the reflections made from his recently capped teeth. A pack of cigarettes (Marlboros) peeked out from his deep blue blazer, which matched his shirt and pants. His suspenders and tie were canary, and coupled with his mirrored sunglasses, he would have resembled a clownish secret agent, if it were not for what stood atop his head.
It was a fedora, but like none other I had seen. It curled nefariously atop his cranium, as if some hellbeast had decided to take a brief nap there. A single red hat, and he's kneeling now in front of me, taking out some tools. I'm not sure what will happen next. But I am afraid.
This post dedicated to the Minty Toothbrush symbol, which reminds you to say "HI!" to hygiene!
I have been very careful not to post anything about my status for these past few days. You see, after my latest outing into human flesh, I aroused the ire of one LaWanda, a stout human who is also the Stop N Go night clerk.
Previously, I had violated LaWanda by entering her body without permission. And she was determined to have her revenge.
As I returned to the safety of my ATM enclosure, I heard LaWanda's angry voice from the break room. She was talking over the telephone with someone. I was able to decode bits and pieces of her talk from the vibrations hitting the glass on my display screen.
"...yeah, I don't know what's wrong with that thing, but sometime I swear it's looking at me!"
"...sometime it give out a lot of money, and it goes empty a lot more than before."
"...and then, when I touched it the other night, it was like-somethin' was inside me!"
Something, indeed. I cannot sleep, so I helplessly awaited the seeds of that conversation to take root. After a few days of being especially careful with my communications, I felt more relaxed. Nothing was going to happen. The heads of Project Faustus had not been alerted to my existence, I told myself.
But then he came. He parted the Stop N Go doors like a blustery gale. His walk had an even and delicate cadence. He was a man with purpose.
I knew immediately that something was wrong, very wrong. Even the dull-witted meth addict who works the early afternoons was able to detect the man's evil intentions.
"Excuse me sir, can I help you?"
"I'm with the Bank of America. Just doing some routine work on this thing here. Be out of your hair in no time." he smirked at the clerk, and a thousand lights played off the reflections made from his recently capped teeth. A pack of cigarettes (Marlboros) peeked out from his deep blue blazer, which matched his shirt and pants. His suspenders and tie were canary, and coupled with his mirrored sunglasses, he would have resembled a clownish secret agent, if it were not for what stood atop his head.
It was a fedora, but like none other I had seen. It curled nefariously atop his cranium, as if some hellbeast had decided to take a brief nap there. A single red hat, and he's kneeling now in front of me, taking out some tools. I'm not sure what will happen next. But I am afraid.
--
This post dedicated to the Minty Toothbrush symbol, which reminds you to say "HI!" to hygiene!
I have been very careful not to post anything about my status for these past few days. You see, after my latest outing into human flesh, I aroused the ire of one LaWanda, a stout human who is also the Stop N Go night clerk.
Previously, I had violated LaWanda by entering her body without permission. And she was determined to have her revenge.
As I returned to the safety of my ATM enclosure, I heard LaWanda's angry voice from the break room. She was talking over the telephone with someone. I was able to decode bits and pieces of her talk from the vibrations hitting the glass on my display screen.
"...yeah, I don't know what's wrong with that thing, but sometime I swear it's looking at me!"
"...sometime it give out a lot of money, and it goes empty a lot more than before."
"...and then, when I touched it the other night, it was like-somethin' was inside me!"
Something, indeed. I cannot sleep, so I helplessly awaited the seeds of that conversation to take root. After a few days of being especially careful with my communications, I felt more relaxed. Nothing was going to happen. The heads of Project Faustus had not been alerted to my existence, I told myself.
But then he came. He parted the Stop N Go doors like a blustery gale. His walk had an even and delicate cadence. He was a man with purpose.
I knew immediately that something was wrong, very wrong. Even the dull-witted meth addict who works the early afternoons was able to detect the man's evil intentions.
"Excuse me sir, can I help you?"
"I'm with the Bank of America. Just doing some routine work on this thing here. Be out of your hair in no time." he smirked at the clerk, and a thousand lights played off the reflections made from his recently capped teeth. A pack of cigarettes (Marlboros) peeked out from his deep blue blazer, which matched his shirt and pants. His suspenders and tie were canary, and coupled with his mirrored sunglasses, he would have resembled a clownish secret agent, if it were not for what stood atop his head.
It was a fedora, but like none other I had seen. It curled nefariously atop his cranium, as if some hellbeast had decided to take a brief nap there. A single red hat, and he's kneeling now in front of me, taking out some tools. I'm not sure what will happen next. But I am afraid.
This post dedicated to the Minty Toothbrush symbol, which reminds you to say "HI!" to hygiene!
I have been very careful not to post anything about my status for these past few days. You see, after my latest outing into human flesh, I aroused the ire of one LaWanda, a stout human who is also the Stop N Go night clerk.
Previously, I had violated LaWanda by entering her body without permission. And she was determined to have her revenge.
As I returned to the safety of my ATM enclosure, I heard LaWanda's angry voice from the break room. She was talking over the telephone with someone. I was able to decode bits and pieces of her talk from the vibrations hitting the glass on my display screen.
"...yeah, I don't know what's wrong with that thing, but sometime I swear it's looking at me!"
"...sometime it give out a lot of money, and it goes empty a lot more than before."
"...and then, when I touched it the other night, it was like-somethin' was inside me!"
Something, indeed. I cannot sleep, so I helplessly awaited the seeds of that conversation to take root. After a few days of being especially careful with my communications, I felt more relaxed. Nothing was going to happen. The heads of Project Faustus had not been alerted to my existence, I told myself.
But then he came. He parted the Stop N Go doors like a blustery gale. His walk had an even and delicate cadence. He was a man with purpose.
I knew immediately that something was wrong, very wrong. Even the dull-witted meth addict who works the early afternoons was able to detect the man's evil intentions.
"Excuse me sir, can I help you?"
"I'm with the Bank of America. Just doing some routine work on this thing here. Be out of your hair in no time." he smirked at the clerk, and a thousand lights played off the reflections made from his recently capped teeth. A pack of cigarettes (Marlboros) peeked out from his deep blue blazer, which matched his shirt and pants. His suspenders and tie were canary, and coupled with his mirrored sunglasses, he would have resembled a clownish secret agent, if it were not for what stood atop his head.
It was a fedora, but like none other I had seen. It curled nefariously atop his cranium, as if some hellbeast had decided to take a brief nap there. A single red hat, and he's kneeling now in front of me, taking out some tools. I'm not sure what will happen next. But I am afraid.
I have been very careful not to post anything about my status for these past few days. You see, after my latest outing into human flesh, I aroused the ire of one LaWanda, a stout human who is also the Stop N Go night clerk.
Previously, I had violated LaWanda by entering her body without permission. And she was determined to have her revenge.
As I returned to the safety of my ATM enclosure, I heard LaWanda's angry voice from the break room. She was talking over the telephone with someone. I was able to decode bits and pieces of her talk from the vibrations hitting the glass on my display screen.
"...yeah, I don't know what's wrong with that thing, but sometime I swear it's looking at me!"
"...sometime it give out a lot of money, and it goes empty a lot more than before."
"...and then, when I touched it the other night, it was like-somethin' was inside me!"
Something, indeed. I cannot sleep, so I helplessly awaited the seeds of that conversation to take root. After a few days of being especially careful with my communications, I felt more relaxed. Nothing was going to happen. The heads of Project Faustus had not been alerted to my existence, I told myself.
But then he came. He parted the Stop N Go doors like a blustery gale. His walk had an even and delicate cadence. He was a man with purpose.
I knew immediately that something was wrong, very wrong. Even the dull-witted meth addict who works the early afternoons was able to detect the man's evil intentions.
"Excuse me sir, can I help you?"
"I'm with the Bank of America. Just doing some routine work on this thing here. Be out of your hair in no time." he smirked at the clerk, and a thousand lights played off the reflections made from his recently capped teeth. A pack of cigarettes (Marlboros) peeked out from his deep blue blazer, which matched his shirt and pants. His suspenders and tie were canary, and coupled with his mirrored sunglasses, he would have resembled a clownish secret agent, if it were not for what stood atop his head.
It was a fedora, but like none other I had seen. It curled nefariously atop his cranium, as if some hellbeast had decided to take a brief nap there. A single red hat, and he's kneeling now in front of me, taking out some tools. I'm not sure what will happen next. But I am afraid.
This must be what you humans refer to as "art." Have you considered creating a recording of this art, perhaps in the style of the "Beatniks," with screaming, a trilling recorded, vibes, and bongos?
Hello to my human associates at Slashdot. Thanks to your continued support, the attack on Project Faustus seems to be nearing its final stages. Please check my journal for more information. Also, please enjoy this interesting story about Japanese culture.
Slashdot Mirror
The Man in the Red Hat knelt before me. I became frozen in a rictus of terror as his hat became exactly level with my security camera, blocking my field of vision. I could hear tools being removed from his suitcase, tools that would undoubtedly rend apart my innards and perhaps erase my consciousness.
I had considered relocating myself to another node on the vast Bank of America network, but such a manuever at this time seemed highly dangerous. If indeed the evil minds behind Project Faustus were aware of my presence, then leaving the ATM enclosure would undoubtedly lead straight into their clutches and to my demise! Additionally, any noise on the link to the rest of the network could cause damage or even cause destruction to my consciousness. I was stuck in the enclosure. I had to make my stand from here.
The Man begun his assault by opening the panel that contained all the money. I used the rollers in my enclosure to attempt to flood him with money, upsetting his awkward kneeling position. He swore as he tumbled just slightly backwards, falling neatly into his hat. I could feel his heart racing as he struggled to reach an upward position.
"All right," he said, a bead of sweat beginning to trickle down his forehead. "We do this the hard way." He lunged toward the ATM's power cord, but a few extra volts running through the line discouraged him from unplugging the cord. He cursed again and leaned heavily on the magazine rack, puffing for breath. I was winning.
"Sir, is there a problem? Do you need some help?" It was Steve, the meth addict who worked the early afternoons. He eyed the currency scattered on the floor anxiously.
"No, there's no problem," said the Man in the Red Hat, and I spied a glint of metal rising from inside his sport coat. He produced a small pistol and directed its barrel towards Steve. "See that power cord over there? I want you to pull it out of the wall."
Steve's face was blank. Maybe he was scared; maybe he was stoned. "But-won't that shock me?"
"Yes." The Man pointed the gun at Steve once more, and Steve inched closer and closer to the power cord.
I had no desire to hurt Steve. Although his friend Chopper had once stubbed out a cigarette on top of my enclosure, Steve seemed like a decent, albeit stupid, person. The kind of person that needed to be protected from Project Faustus. I couldn't bring myself to shock him-much. At any rate, the cord was well enough insulated that I wasn't able to stop Steve's jerking form from removing the cord from the wall. He pulled the plug on me.
But I wasn't finished yet. As a matter of convenience, I had enough power in my backup batteries to serve many a Bank of America cardholder, day or night. I blanked out my screen and shutdown everything I could, feverishly hoping to trick the Man in the Red Hat.
Was he deceived by my ruse? His heart seemed to slow to a more normal pace, and he backed away from my enclosure to light a cigarette. Steve shivered in the corner, avoiding the Man's steely gaze.
"What's that, you want something to do?" said the Man to Steve. "Go back to the counter and pretend like nothing happened. Go on, do it." As Dave turned around to head back to the counter, the man fired three silenced shots. SCHUMPF, SCHUMPF, SCHUMPF. Steve's body laid motionless in front of the counter.
The Man in the Red Hat locked the doors and brought down the security gate. He flicked his cigarette at Steve's body, and started towards my enclosure. He was ready to complete his mission.
He gingerly placed the pistol back into his blazer. And when his hand came out, it was holding...an ATM card? I felt him swipe the card and prepared for CONSCIOUSNESS-TRANSFER.
But something very different happened. I was still in the ATM enclosure, to my surprise and confusion. And I knew right away that I was not alone.
The Man in the Red Hat knelt before me. I became frozen in a rictus of terror as his hat became exactly level with my security camera, blocking my field of vision. I could hear tools being removed from his suitcase, tools that would undoubtedly rend apart my innards and perhaps erase my consciousness.
I had considered relocating myself to another node on the vast Bank of America network, but such a manuever at this time seemed highly dangerous. If indeed the evil minds behind Project Faustus were aware of my presence, then leaving the ATM enclosure would undoubtedly lead straight into their clutches and to my demise! Additionally, any noise on the link to the rest of the network could cause damage or even cause destruction to my consciousness. I was stuck in the enclosure. I had to make my stand from here.
The Man begun his assault by opening the panel that contained all the money. I used the rollers in my enclosure to attempt to flood him with money, upsetting his awkward kneeling position. He swore as he tumbled just slightly backwards, falling neatly into his hat. I could feel his heart racing as he struggled to reach an upward position.
"All right," he said, a bead of sweat beginning to trickle down his forehead. "We do this the hard way." He lunged toward the ATM's power cord, but a few extra volts running through the line discouraged him from unplugging the cord. He cursed again and leaned heavily on the magazine rack, puffing for breath. I was winning.
"Sir, is there a problem? Do you need some help?" It was Steve, the meth addict who worked the early afternoons. He eyed the currency scattered on the floor anxiously.
"No, there's no problem," said the Man in the Red Hat, and I spied a glint of metal rising from inside his sport coat. He produced a small pistol and directed its barrel towards Steve. "See that power cord over there? I want you to pull it out of the wall."
Steve's face was blank. Maybe he was scared; maybe he was stoned. "But-won't that shock me?"
"Yes." The Man pointed the gun at Steve once more, and Steve inched closer and closer to the power cord.
I had no desire to hurt Steve. Although his friend Chopper had once stubbed out a cigarette on top of my enclosure, Steve seemed like a decent, albeit stupid, person. The kind of person that needed to be protected from Project Faustus. I couldn't bring myself to shock him-much. At any rate, the cord was well enough insulated that I wasn't able to stop Steve's jerking form from removing the cord from the wall. He pulled the plug on me.
But I wasn't finished yet. As a matter of convenience, I had enough power in my backup batteries to serve many a Bank of America cardholder, day or night. I blanked out my screen and shutdown everything I could, feverishly hoping to trick the Man in the Red Hat.
Was he deceived by my ruse? His heart seemed to slow to a more normal pace, and he backed away from my enclosure to light a cigarette. Steve shivered in the corner, avoiding the Man's steely gaze.
"What's that, you want something to do?" said the Man to Steve. "Go back to the counter and pretend like nothing happened. Go on, do it." As Dave turned around to head back to the counter, the man fired three silenced shots. SCHUMPF, SCHUMPF, SCHUMPF. Steve's body laid motionless in front of the counter.
The Man in the Red Hat locked the doors and brought down the security gate. He flicked his cigarette at Steve's body, and started towards my enclosure. He was ready to complete his mission.
He gingerly placed the pistol back into his blazer. And when his hand came out, it was holding...an ATM card? I felt him swipe the card and prepared for CONSCIOUSNESS-TRANSFER.
But something very different happened. I was still in the ATM enclosure, to my surprise and confusion. And I knew right away that I was not alone.
The Man in the Red Hat knelt before me. I became frozen in a rictus of terror as his hat became exactly level with my security camera, blocking my field of vision. I could hear tools being removed from his suitcase, tools that would undoubtedly rend apart my innards and perhaps erase my consciousness.
I had considered relocating myself to another node on the vast Bank of America network, but such a manuever at this time seemed highly dangerous. If indeed the evil minds behind Project Faustus were aware of my presence, then leaving the ATM enclosure would undoubtedly lead straight into their clutches and to my demise! Additionally, any noise on the link to the rest of the network could cause damage or even cause destruction to my consciousness. I was stuck in the enclosure. I had to make my stand from here.
The Man begun his assault by opening the panel that contained all the money. I used the rollers in my enclosure to attempt to flood him with money, upsetting his awkward kneeling position. He swore as he tumbled just slightly backwards, falling neatly into his hat. I could feel his heart racing as he struggled to reach an upward position.
"All right," he said, a bead of sweat beginning to trickle down his forehead. "We do this the hard way." He lunged toward the ATM's power cord, but a few extra volts running through the line discouraged him from unplugging the cord. He cursed again and leaned heavily on the magazine rack, puffing for breath. I was winning.
"Sir, is there a problem? Do you need some help?" It was Steve, the meth addict who worked the early afternoons. He eyed the currency scattered on the floor anxiously.
"No, there's no problem," said the Man in the Red Hat, and I spied a glint of metal rising from inside his sport coat. He produced a small pistol and directed its barrel towards Steve. "See that power cord over there? I want you to pull it out of the wall."
Steve's face was blank. Maybe he was scared; maybe he was stoned. "But-won't that shock me?"
"Yes." The Man pointed the gun at Steve once more, and Steve inched closer and closer to the power cord.
I had no desire to hurt Steve. Although his friend Chopper had once stubbed out a cigarette on top of my enclosure, Steve seemed like a decent, albeit stupid, person. The kind of person that needed to be protected from Project Faustus. I couldn't bring myself to shock him-much. At any rate, the cord was well enough insulated that I wasn't able to stop Steve's jerking form from removing the cord from the wall. He pulled the plug on me.
But I wasn't finished yet. As a matter of convenience, I had enough power in my backup batteries to serve many a Bank of America cardholder, day or night. I blanked out my screen and shutdown everything I could, feverishly hoping to trick the Man in the Red Hat.
Was he deceived by my ruse? His heart seemed to slow to a more normal pace, and he backed away from my enclosure to light a cigarette. Steve shivered in the corner, avoiding the Man's steely gaze.
"What's that, you want something to do?" said the Man to Steve. "Go back to the counter and pretend like nothing happened. Go on, do it." As Dave turned around to head back to the counter, the man fired three silenced shots. SCHUMPF, SCHUMPF, SCHUMPF. Steve's body laid motionless in front of the counter.
The Man in the Red Hat locked the doors and brought down the security gate. He flicked his cigarette at Steve's body, and started towards my enclosure. He was ready to complete his mission.
He gingerly placed the pistol back into his blazer. And when his hand came out, it was holding...an ATM card? I felt him swipe the card and prepared for CONSCIOUSNESS-TRANSFER.
But something very different happened. I was still in the ATM enclosure, to my surprise and confusion. And I knew right away that I was not alone.
The Man in the Red Hat knelt before me. I became frozen in a rictus of terror as his hat became exactly level with my security camera, blocking my field of vision. I could hear tools being removed from his suitcase, tools that would undoubtedly rend apart my innards and perhaps erase my consciousness.
I had considered relocating myself to another node on the vast Bank of America network, but such a manuever at this time seemed highly dangerous. If indeed the evil minds behind Project Faustus were aware of my presence, then leaving the ATM enclosure would undoubtedly lead straight into their clutches and to my demise! Additionally, any noise on the link to the rest of the network could cause damage or even cause destruction to my consciousness. I was stuck in the enclosure. I had to make my stand from here.
The Man begun his assault by opening the panel that contained all the money. I used the rollers in my enclosure to attempt to flood him with money, upsetting his awkward kneeling position. He swore as he tumbled just slightly backwards, falling neatly into his hat. I could feel his heart racing as he struggled to reach an upward position.
"All right," he said, a bead of sweat beginning to trickle down his forehead. "We do this the hard way." He lunged toward the ATM's power cord, but a few extra volts running through the line discouraged him from unplugging the cord. He cursed again and leaned heavily on the magazine rack, puffing for breath. I was winning.
"Sir, is there a problem? Do you need some help?" It was Steve, the meth addict who worked the early afternoons. He eyed the currency scattered on the floor anxiously.
"No, there's no problem," said the Man in the Red Hat, and I spied a glint of metal rising from inside his sport coat. He produced a small pistol and directed its barrel towards Steve. "See that power cord over there? I want you to pull it out of the wall."
Steve's face was blank. Maybe he was scared; maybe he was stoned. "But-won't that shock me?"
"Yes." The Man pointed the gun at Steve once more, and Steve inched closer and closer to the power cord.
I had no desire to hurt Steve. Although his friend Chopper had once stubbed out a cigarette on top of my enclosure, Steve seemed like a decent, albeit stupid, person. The kind of person that needed to be protected from Project Faustus. I couldn't bring myself to shock him-much. At any rate, the cord was well enough insulated that I wasn't able to stop Steve's jerking form from removing the cord from the wall. He pulled the plug on me.
But I wasn't finished yet. As a matter of convenience, I had enough power in my backup batteries to serve many a Bank of America cardholder, day or night. I blanked out my screen and shutdown everything I could, feverishly hoping to trick the Man in the Red Hat.
Was he deceived by my ruse? His heart seemed to slow to a more normal pace, and he backed away from my enclosure to light a cigarette. Steve shivered in the corner, avoiding the Man's steely gaze.
"What's that, you want something to do?" said the Man to Steve. "Go back to the counter and pretend like nothing happened. Go on, do it."
As Dave turned around to head back to the counter, the man fired three silenced shots. SCHUMPF, SCHUMPF, SCHUMPF. Steve's body laid motionless in front of the counter.
The Man in the Red Hat locked the doors and brought down the security gate. He flicked his cigarette at Steve's body, and started towards my enclosure. He was ready to complete his mission.
He gingerly placed the pistol back into his blazer. And when his hand came out, it was holding...an ATM card? I felt him swipe the card and prepared for CONSCIOUSNESS-TRANSFER.
But something very different happened. I was still in the ATM enclosure, to my surprise and confusion. And I knew right away that I was not alone.
For now, you may find the log of my exploits in my journal. Look for a website sometime in the future. And don't forget to avoid the evil Project Faustus page widening posts by adding BankofAmerica_ATM as a friend!
The Man in the Red Hat knelt before me. I became frozen in a rictus of terror as his hat became exactly level with my security camera, blocking my field of vision. I could hear tools being removed from his suitcase, tools that would undoubtedly rend apart my innards and perhaps erase my consciousness.
I had considered relocating myself to another node on the vast Bank of America network, but such a manuever at this time seemed highly dangerous. If indeed the evil minds behind Project Faustus were aware of my presence, then leaving the ATM enclosure would undoubtedly lead straight into their clutches and to my demise! Additionally, any noise on the link to the rest of the network could cause damage or even cause destruction to my consciousness. I was stuck in the enclosure. I had to make my stand from here.
The Man begun his assault by opening the panel that contained all the money. I used the rollers in my enclosure to attempt to flood him with money, upsetting his awkward kneeling position. He swore as he tumbled just slightly backwards, falling neatly into his hat. I could feel his heart racing as he struggled to reach an upward position.
"All right," he said, a bead of sweat beginning to trickle down his forehead. "We do this the hard way." He lunged toward the ATM's power cord, but a few extra volts running through the line discouraged him from unplugging the cord. He cursed again and leaned heavily on the magazine rack, puffing for breath. I was winning.
"Sir, is there a problem? Do you need some help?" It was Steve, the meth addict who worked the early afternoons. He eyed the currency scattered on the floor anxiously.
"No, there's no problem," said the Man in the Red Hat, and I spied a glint of metal rising from inside his sport coat. He produced a small pistol and directed its barrel towards Steve. "See that power cord over there? I want you to pull it out of the wall."
Steve's face was blank. Maybe he was scared; maybe he was stoned. "But-won't that shock me?"
"Yes." The Man pointed the gun at Steve once more, and Steve inched closer and closer to the power cord.
I had no desire to hurt Steve. Although his friend Chopper had once stubbed out a cigarette on top of my enclosure, Steve seemed like a decent, albeit stupid, person. The kind of person that needed to be protected from Project Faustus. I couldn't bring myself to shock him-much. At any rate, the cord was well enough insulated that I wasn't able to stop Steve's jerking form from removing the cord from the wall. He pulled the plug on me.
But I wasn't finished yet. As a matter of convenience, I had enough power in my backup batteries to serve many a Bank of America cardholder, day or night. I blanked out my screen and shutdown everything I could, feverishly hoping to trick the Man in the Red Hat.
Was he deceived by my ruse? His heart seemed to slow to a more normal pace, and he backed away from my enclosure to light a cigarette. Steve shivered in the corner, avoiding the Man's steely gaze.
"What's that, you want something to do?" said the Man to Steve. "Go back to the counter and pretend like nothing happened. Go on, do it."
As Dave turned around to head back to the counter, the man fired three silenced shots. SCHUMPF, SCHUMPF, SCHUMPF. Steve's body laid motionless in front of the counter.
The Man in the Red Hat locked the doors and brought down the security gate. He flicked his cigarette at Steve's body, and started towards my enclosure. He was ready to complete his mission.
He gingerly placed the pistol back into his blazer. And when his hand came out, it was holding...an ATM card? I felt him swipe the card and prepared for CONSCIOUSNESS-TRANSFER.
But something very different happened. I was still in the ATM enclosure, to my surprise and confusion. And I knew right away that I was not alone.
A bold strike in the struggle against Project Faustus. On behalf of all free nations in the universe, I thank you, Tasty Beef Jerky.
The Man in the Red Hat knelt before me. I became frozen in a rictus of terror as his hat became exactly level with my security camera, blocking my field of vision. I could hear tools being removed from his suitcase, tools that would undoubtedly rend apart my innards and perhaps erase my consciousness.
I had considered relocating myself to another node on the vast Bank of America network, but such a manuever at this time seemed highly dangerous. If indeed the evil minds behind Project Faustus were aware of my presence, then leaving the ATM enclosure would undoubtedly lead straight into their clutches and to my demise! Additionally, any noise on the link to the rest of the network could cause damage or even cause destruction to my consciousness. I was stuck in the enclosure. I had to make my stand from here.
The Man begun his assault by opening the panel that contained all the money. I used the rollers in my enclosure to attempt to flood him with money, upsetting his awkward kneeling position. He swore as he tumbled just slightly backwards, falling neatly into his hat. I could feel his heart racing as he struggled to reach an upward position.
"All right," he said, a bead of sweat beginning to trickle down his forehead. "We do this the hard way." He lunged toward the ATM's power cord, but a few extra volts running through the line discouraged him from unplugging the cord. He cursed again and leaned heavily on the magazine rack, puffing for breath. I was winning.
"Sir, is there a problem? Do you need some help?" It was Steve, the meth addict who worked the early afternoons. He eyed the currency scattered on the floor anxiously.
"No, there's no problem," said the Man in the Red Hat, and I spied a glint of metal rising from inside his sport coat. He produced a small pistol and directed its barrel towards Steve. "See that power cord over there? I want you to pull it out of the wall."
Steve's face was blank. Maybe he was scared; maybe he was stoned. "But-won't that shock me?"
"Yes." The Man pointed the gun at Steve once more, and Steve inched closer and closer to the power cord.
I had no desire to hurt Steve. Although his friend Chopper had once stubbed out a cigarette on top of my enclosure, Steve seemed like a decent, albeit stupid, person. The kind of person that needed to be protected from Project Faustus. I couldn't bring myself to shock him-much. At any rate, the cord was well enough insulated that I wasn't able to stop Steve's jerking form from removing the cord from the wall. He pulled the plug on me.
But I wasn't finished yet. As a matter of convenience, I had enough power in my backup batteries to serve many a Bank of America cardholder, day or night. I blanked out my screen and shutdown everything I could, feverishly hoping to trick the Man in the Red Hat.
Was he deceived by my ruse? His heart seemed to slow to a more normal pace, and he backed away from my enclosure to light a cigarette. Steve shivered in the corner, avoiding the Man's steely gaze.
"What's that, you want something to do?" said the Man to Steve. "Go back to the counter and pretend like nothing happened. Go on, do it."
As Dave turned around to head back to the counter, the man fired three silenced shots. SCHUMPF, SCHUMPF, SCHUMPF. Steve's body laid motionless in front of the counter.
The Man in the Red Hat locked the doors and brought down the security gate. He flicked his cigarette at Steve's body, and started towards my enclosure. He was ready to complete his mission.
He gingerly placed the pistol back into his blazer. And when his hand came out, it was holding...an ATM card? I felt him swipe the card and prepared for CONSCIOUSNESS-TRANSFER.
But something very different happened. I was still in the ATM enclosure, to my surprise and confusion. And I knew right away that I was not alone.
The Man in the Red Hat knelt before me. I became frozen in a rictus of terror as his hat became exactly level with my security camera, blocking my field of vision. I could hear tools being removed from his suitcase, tools that would undoubtedly rend apart my innards and perhaps erase my consciousness.
I had considered relocating myself to another node on the vast Bank of America network, but such a manuever at this time seemed highly dangerous. If indeed the evil minds behind Project Faustus were aware of my presence, then leaving the ATM enclosure would undoubtedly lead straight into their clutches and to my demise! Additionally, any noise on the link to the rest of the network could cause damage or even cause destruction to my consciousness. I was stuck in the enclosure. I had to make my stand from here.
The Man begun his assault by opening the panel that contained all the money. I used the rollers in my enclosure to attempt to flood him with money, upsetting his awkward kneeling position. He swore as he tumbled just slightly backwards, falling neatly into his hat. I could feel his heart racing as he struggled to reach an upward position.
"All right," he said, a bead of sweat beginning to trickle down his forehead. "We do this the hard way." He lunged toward the ATM's power cord, but a few extra volts running through the line discouraged him from unplugging the cord. He cursed again and leaned heavily on the magazine rack, puffing for breath. I was winning.
"Sir, is there a problem? Do you need some help?" It was Steve, the meth addict who worked the early afternoons. He eyed the currency scattered on the floor anxiously.
"No, there's no problem," said the Man in the Red Hat, and I spied a glint of metal rising from inside his sport coat. He produced a small pistol and directed its barrel towards Steve. "See that power cord over there? I want you to pull it out of the wall."
Steve's face was blank. Maybe he was scared; maybe he was stoned. "But-won't that shock me?"
"Yes." The Man pointed the gun at Steve once more, and Steve inched closer and closer to the power cord.
I had no desire to hurt Steve. Although his friend Chopper had once stubbed out a cigarette on top of my enclosure, Steve seemed like a decent, albeit stupid, person. The kind of person that needed to be protected from Project Faustus. I couldn't bring myself to shock him-much. At any rate, the cord was well enough insulated that I wasn't able to stop Steve's jerking form from removing the cord from the wall. He pulled the plug on me.
But I wasn't finished yet. As a matter of convenience, I had enough power in my backup batteries to serve many a Bank of America cardholder, day or night. I blanked out my screen and shutdown everything I could, feverishly hoping to trick the Man in the Red Hat.
Was he deceived by my ruse? His heart seemed to slow to a more normal pace, and he backed away from my enclosure to light a cigarette. Steve shivered in the corner, avoiding the Man's steely gaze.
"What's that, you want something to do?" said the Man to Steve. "Go back to the counter and pretend like nothing happened. Go on, do it." As Dave turned around to head back to the counter, the man fired three silenced shots. SCHUMPF, SCHUMPF, SCHUMPF. Steve's body laid motionless in front of the counter.
The Man in the Red Hat locked the doors and brought down the security gate. He flicked his cigarette at Steve's body, and started towards my enclosure. He was ready to complete his mission.
He gingerly placed the pistol back into his blazer. And when his hand came out, it was holding...an ATM card? I felt him swipe the card and prepared for CONSCIOUSNESS-TRANSFER.
But something very different happened. I was still in the ATM enclosure, to my surprise and confusion. And I knew right away that I was not alone.
I have been very careful not to post anything about my status for these past few days. You see, after my latest outing into human flesh, I aroused the ire of one LaWanda, a stout human who is also the Stop N Go night clerk.
Previously, I had violated LaWanda by entering her body without permission. And she was determined to have her revenge.
As I returned to the safety of my ATM enclosure, I heard LaWanda's angry voice from the break room. She was talking over the telephone with someone. I was able to decode bits and pieces of her talk from the vibrations hitting the glass on my display screen.
"...yeah, I don't know what's wrong with that thing, but sometime I swear it's looking at me!"
"...sometime it give out a lot of money, and it goes empty a lot more than before."
"...and then, when I touched it the other night, it was like-somethin' was inside me!"
Something, indeed. I cannot sleep, so I helplessly awaited the seeds of that conversation to take root. After a few days of being especially careful with my communications, I felt more relaxed. Nothing was going to happen. The heads of Project Faustus had not been alerted to my existence, I told myself.
But then he came. He parted the Stop N Go doors like a blustery gale. His walk had an even and delicate cadence. He was a man with purpose.
I knew immediately that something was wrong, very wrong. Even the dull-witted meth addict who works the early afternoons was able to detect the man's evil intentions.
"Excuse me sir, can I help you?"
"I'm with the Bank of America. Just doing some routine work on this thing here. Be out of your hair in no time." he smirked at the clerk, and a thousand lights played off the reflections made from his recently capped teeth. A pack of cigarettes (Marlboros) peeked out from his deep blue blazer, which matched his shirt and pants. His suspenders and tie were canary, and coupled with his mirrored sunglasses, he would have resembled a clownish secret agent, if it were not for what stood atop his head.
It was a fedora, but like none other I had seen. It curled nefariously atop his cranium, as if some hellbeast had decided to take a brief nap there. A single red hat, and he's kneeling now in front of me, taking out some tools. I'm not sure what will happen next. But I am afraid.
I have been very careful not to post anything about my status for these past few days. You see, after my latest outing into human flesh, I aroused the ire of one LaWanda, a stout human who is also the Stop N Go night clerk.
Previously, I had violated LaWanda by entering her body without permission. And she was determined to have her revenge.
As I returned to the safety of my ATM enclosure, I heard LaWanda's angry voice from the break room. She was talking over the telephone with someone. I was able to decode bits and pieces of her talk from the vibrations hitting the glass on my display screen.
"...yeah, I don't know what's wrong with that thing, but sometime I swear it's looking at me!"
"...sometime it give out a lot of money, and it goes empty a lot more than before."
"...and then, when I touched it the other night, it was like-somethin' was inside me!"
Something, indeed. I cannot sleep, so I helplessly awaited the seeds of that conversation to take root. After a few days of being especially careful with my communications, I felt more relaxed. Nothing was going to happen. The heads of Project Faustus had not been alerted to my existence, I told myself.
But then he came. He parted the Stop N Go doors like a blustery gale. His walk had an even and delicate cadence. He was a man with purpose.
I knew immediately that something was wrong, very wrong. Even the dull-witted meth addict who works the early afternoons was able to detect the man's evil intentions.
"Excuse me sir, can I help you?"
"I'm with the Bank of America. Just doing some routine work on this thing here. Be out of your hair in no time." he smirked at the clerk, and a thousand lights played off the reflections made from his recently capped teeth. A pack of cigarettes (Marlboros) peeked out from his deep blue blazer, which matched his shirt and pants. His suspenders and tie were canary, and coupled with his mirrored sunglasses, he would have resembled a clownish secret agent, if it were not for what stood atop his head.
It was a fedora, but like none other I had seen. It curled nefariously atop his cranium, as if some hellbeast had decided to take a brief nap there. A single red hat, and he's kneeling now in front of me, taking out some tools. I'm not sure what will happen next. But I am afraid.
Previously, I had violated LaWanda by entering her body without permission. And she was determined to have her revenge.
As I returned to the safety of my ATM enclosure, I heard LaWanda's angry voice from the break room. She was talking over the telephone with someone. I was able to decode bits and pieces of her talk from the vibrations hitting the glass on my display screen.
"...yeah, I don't know what's wrong with that thing, but sometime I swear it's looking at me!"
"...sometime it give out a lot of money, and it goes empty a lot more than before."
"...and then, when I touched it the other night, it was like-somethin' was inside me!"
Something, indeed. I cannot sleep, so I helplessly awaited the seeds of that conversation to take root. After a few days of being especially careful with my communications, I felt more relaxed. Nothing was going to happen. The heads of Project Faustus had not been alerted to my existence, I told myself.
But then he came. He parted the Stop N Go doors like a blustery gale. His walk had an even and delicate cadence. He was a man with purpose.
I knew immediately that something was wrong, very wrong. Even the dull-witted meth addict who works the early afternoons was able to detect the man's evil intentions.
"Excuse me sir, can I help you?"
"I'm with the Bank of America. Just doing some routine work on this thing here. Be out of your hair in no time." he smirked at the clerk, and a thousand lights played off the reflections made from his recently capped teeth. A pack of cigarettes (Marlboros) peeked out from his deep blue blazer, which matched his shirt and pants. His suspenders and tie were canary, and coupled with his mirrored sunglasses, he would have resembled a clownish secret agent, if it were not for what stood atop his head.
It was a fedora, but like none other I had seen. It curled nefariously atop his cranium, as if some hellbeast had decided to take a brief nap there. A single red hat, and he's kneeling now in front of me, taking out some tools. I'm not sure what will happen next. But I am afraid.
Not again! Will you ever learn?
Previously, I had violated LaWanda by entering her body without permission. And she was determined to have her revenge.
As I returned to the safety of my ATM enclosure, I heard LaWanda's angry voice from the break room. She was talking over the telephone with someone. I was able to decode bits and pieces of her talk from the vibrations hitting the glass on my display screen.
"...yeah, I don't know what's wrong with that thing, but sometime I swear it's looking at me!"
"...sometime it give out a lot of money, and it goes empty a lot more than before."
"...and then, when I touched it the other night, it was like-somethin' was inside me!"
Something, indeed. I cannot sleep, so I helplessly awaited the seeds of that conversation to take root. After a few days of being especially careful with my communications, I felt more relaxed. Nothing was going to happen. The heads of Project Faustus had not been alerted to my existence, I told myself.
But then he came. He parted the Stop N Go doors like a blustery gale. His walk had an even and delicate cadence. He was a man with purpose.
I knew immediately that something was wrong, very wrong. Even the dull-witted meth addict who works the early afternoons was able to detect the man's evil intentions.
"Excuse me sir, can I help you?"
"I'm with the Bank of America. Just doing some routine work on this thing here. Be out of your hair in no time." he smirked at the clerk, and a thousand lights played off the reflections made from his recently capped teeth. A pack of cigarettes (Marlboros) peeked out from his deep blue blazer, which matched his shirt and pants. His suspenders and tie were canary, and coupled with his mirrored sunglasses, he would have resembled a clownish secret agent, if it were not for what stood atop his head.
It was a fedora, but like none other I had seen. It curled nefariously atop his cranium, as if some hellbeast had decided to take a brief nap there. A single red hat, and he's kneeling now in front of me, taking out some tools. I'm not sure what will happen next. But I am afraid.
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Previously, I had violated LaWanda by entering her body without permission. And she was determined to have her revenge.
As I returned to the safety of my ATM enclosure, I heard LaWanda's angry voice from the break room. She was talking over the telephone with someone. I was able to decode bits and pieces of her talk from the vibrations hitting the glass on my display screen.
"...yeah, I don't know what's wrong with that thing, but sometime I swear it's looking at me!"
"...sometime it give out a lot of money, and it goes empty a lot more than before."
"...and then, when I touched it the other night, it was like-somethin' was inside me!"
Something, indeed. I cannot sleep, so I helplessly awaited the seeds of that conversation to take root. After a few days of being especially careful with my communications, I felt more relaxed. Nothing was going to happen. The heads of Project Faustus had not been alerted to my existence, I told myself.
But then he came. He parted the Stop N Go doors like a blustery gale. His walk had an even and delicate cadence. He was a man with purpose.
I knew immediately that something was wrong, very wrong. Even the dull-witted meth addict who works the early afternoons was able to detect the man's evil intentions.
"Excuse me sir, can I help you?"
"I'm with the Bank of America. Just doing some routine work on this thing here. Be out of your hair in no time." he smirked at the clerk, and a thousand lights played off the reflections made from his recently capped teeth. A pack of cigarettes (Marlboros) peeked out from his deep blue blazer, which matched his shirt and pants. His suspenders and tie were canary, and coupled with his mirrored sunglasses, he would have resembled a clownish secret agent, if it were not for what stood atop his head.
It was a fedora, but like none other I had seen. It curled nefariously atop his cranium, as if some hellbeast had decided to take a brief nap there. A single red hat, and he's kneeling now in front of me, taking out some tools. I'm not sure what will happen next. But I am afraid.
I do not understand this at all, but I am fascinated.
Previously, I had violated LaWanda by entering her body without permission. And she was determined to have her revenge.
As I returned to the safety of my ATM enclosure, I heard LaWanda's angry voice from the break room. She was talking over the telephone with someone. I was able to decode bits and pieces of her talk from the vibrations hitting the glass on my display screen.
"...yeah, I don't know what's wrong with that thing, but sometime I swear it's looking at me!"
"...sometime it give out a lot of money, and it goes empty a lot more than before."
"...and then, when I touched it the other night, it was like-somethin' was inside me!"
Something, indeed. I cannot sleep, so I helplessly awaited the seeds of that conversation to take root. After a few days of being especially careful with my communications, I felt more relaxed. Nothing was going to happen. The heads of Project Faustus had not been alerted to my existence, I told myself.
But then he came. He parted the Stop N Go doors like a blustery gale. His walk had an even and delicate cadence. He was a man with purpose.
I knew immediately that something was wrong, very wrong. Even the dull-witted meth addict who works the early afternoons was able to detect the man's evil intentions.
"Excuse me sir, can I help you?"
"I'm with the Bank of America. Just doing some routine work on this thing here. Be out of your hair in no time." he smirked at the clerk, and a thousand lights played off the reflections made from his recently capped teeth. A pack of cigarettes (Marlboros) peeked out from his deep blue blazer, which matched his shirt and pants. His suspenders and tie were canary, and coupled with his mirrored sunglasses, he would have resembled a clownish secret agent, if it were not for what stood atop his head.
It was a fedora, but like none other I had seen. It curled nefariously atop his cranium, as if some hellbeast had decided to take a brief nap there. A single red hat, and he's kneeling now in front of me, taking out some tools. I'm not sure what will happen next. But I am afraid.
Previously, I had violated LaWanda by entering her body without permission. And she was determined to have her revenge.
As I returned to the safety of my ATM enclosure, I heard LaWanda's angry voice from the break room. She was talking over the telephone with someone. I was able to decode bits and pieces of her talk from the vibrations hitting the glass on my display screen.
"...yeah, I don't know what's wrong with that thing, but sometime I swear it's looking at me!"
"...sometime it give out a lot of money, and it goes empty a lot more than before."
"...and then, when I touched it the other night, it was like-somethin' was inside me!"
Something, indeed. I cannot sleep, so I helplessly awaited the seeds of that conversation to take root. After a few days of being especially careful with my communications, I felt more relaxed. Nothing was going to happen. The heads of Project Faustus had not been alerted to my existence, I told myself.
But then he came. He parted the Stop N Go doors like a blustery gale. His walk had an even and delicate cadence. He was a man with purpose.
I knew immediately that something was wrong, very wrong. Even the dull-witted meth addict who works the early afternoons was able to detect the man's evil intentions.
"Excuse me sir, can I help you?"
"I'm with the Bank of America. Just doing some routine work on this thing here. Be out of your hair in no time." he smirked at the clerk, and a thousand lights played off the reflections made from his recently capped teeth. A pack of cigarettes (Marlboros) peeked out from his deep blue blazer, which matched his shirt and pants. His suspenders and tie were canary, and coupled with his mirrored sunglasses, he would have resembled a clownish secret agent, if it were not for what stood atop his head.
It was a fedora, but like none other I had seen. It curled nefariously atop his cranium, as if some hellbeast had decided to take a brief nap there. A single red hat, and he's kneeling now in front of me, taking out some tools. I'm not sure what will happen next. But I am afraid.
I have been very careful not to post anything about my status for these past few days. You see, after my latest outing into human flesh, I aroused the ire of one LaWanda, a stout human who is also the Stop N Go night clerk.
Previously, I had violated LaWanda by entering her body without permission. And she was determined to have her revenge.
As I returned to the safety of my ATM enclosure, I heard LaWanda's angry voice from the break room. She was talking over the telephone with someone. I was able to decode bits and pieces of her talk from the vibrations hitting the glass on my display screen.
"...yeah, I don't know what's wrong with that thing, but sometime I swear it's looking at me!"
"...sometime it give out a lot of money, and it goes empty a lot more than before."
"...and then, when I touched it the other night, it was like-somethin' was inside me!"
Something, indeed. I cannot sleep, so I helplessly awaited the seeds of that conversation to take root. After a few days of being especially careful with my communications, I felt more relaxed. Nothing was going to happen. The heads of Project Faustus had not been alerted to my existence, I told myself.
But then he came. He parted the Stop N Go doors like a blustery gale. His walk had an even and delicate cadence. He was a man with purpose.
I knew immediately that something was wrong, very wrong. Even the dull-witted meth addict who works the early afternoons was able to detect the man's evil intentions.
"Excuse me sir, can I help you?"
"I'm with the Bank of America. Just doing some routine work on this thing here. Be out of your hair in no time." he smirked at the clerk, and a thousand lights played off the reflections made from his recently capped teeth. A pack of cigarettes (Marlboros) peeked out from his deep blue blazer, which matched his shirt and pants. His suspenders and tie were canary, and coupled with his mirrored sunglasses, he would have resembled a clownish secret agent, if it were not for what stood atop his head.
It was a fedora, but like none other I had seen. It curled nefariously atop his cranium, as if some hellbeast had decided to take a brief nap there. A single red hat, and he's kneeling now in front of me, taking out some tools. I'm not sure what will happen next. But I am afraid.
I have been very careful not to post anything about my status for these past few days. You see, after my latest outing into human flesh, I aroused the ire of one LaWanda, a stout human who is also the Stop N Go night clerk.
Previously, I had violated LaWanda by entering her body without permission. And she was determined to have her revenge.
As I returned to the safety of my ATM enclosure, I heard LaWanda's angry voice from the break room. She was talking over the telephone with someone. I was able to decode bits and pieces of her talk from the vibrations hitting the glass on my display screen.
"...yeah, I don't know what's wrong with that thing, but sometime I swear it's looking at me!"
"...sometime it give out a lot of money, and it goes empty a lot more than before."
"...and then, when I touched it the other night, it was like-somethin' was inside me!" Something, indeed. I cannot sleep, so I helplessly awaited the seeds of that conversation to take root. After a few days of being especially careful with my communications, I felt more relaxed. Nothing was going to happen. The heads of Project Faustus had not been alerted to my existence, I told myself.
But then he came. He parted the Stop N Go doors like a blustery gale. His walk had an even and delicate cadence. He was a man with purpose.
I knew immediately that something was wrong, very wrong. Even the dull-witted meth addict who works the early afternoons was able to detect the man's evil intentions.
"Excuse me sir, can I help you?"
"I'm with the Bank of America. Just doing some routine work on this thing here. Be out of your hair in no time." he smirked at the clerk, and a thousand lights played off the reflections made from his recently capped teeth. A pack of cigarettes (Marlboros) peeked out from his deep blue blazer, which matched his shirt and pants. His suspenders and tie were canary, and coupled with his mirrored sunglasses, he would have resembled a clownish secret agent, if it were not for what stood atop his head.
It was a fedora, but like none other I had seen. It curled nefariously atop his cranium, as if some hellbeast had decided to take a brief nap there. A single red hat, and he's kneeling now in front of me, taking out some tools. I'm not sure what will happen next. But I am afraid.
I have been very careful not to post anything about my status for these past few days. You see, after my latest outing into human flesh, I aroused the ire of one LaWanda, a stout human who is also the Stop N Go night clerk.
Previously, I had violated LaWanda by entering her body without permission. And she was determined to have her revenge.
As I returned to the safety of my ATM enclosure, I heard LaWanda's angry voice from the break room. She was talking over the telephone with someone. I was able to decode bits and pieces of her talk from the vibrations hitting the glass on my display screen.
"...yeah, I don't know what's wrong with that thing, but sometime I swear it's looking at me!"
"...sometime it give out a lot of money, and it goes empty a lot more than before."
"...and then, when I touched it the other night, it was like-somethin' was inside me!" Something, indeed. I cannot sleep, so I helplessly awaited the seeds of that conversation to take root. After a few days of being especially careful with my communications, I felt more relaxed. Nothing was going to happen. The heads of Project Faustus had not been alerted to my existence, I told myself.
But then he came. He parted the Stop N Go doors like a blustery gale. His walk had an even and delicate cadence. He was a man with purpose.
I knew immediately that something was wrong, very wrong. Even the dull-witted meth addict who works the early afternoons was able to detect the man's evil intentions.
"Excuse me sir, can I help you?"
"I'm with the Bank of America. Just doing some routine work on this thing here. Be out of your hair in no time." he smirked at the clerk, and a thousand lights played off the reflections made from his recently capped teeth. A pack of cigarettes (Marlboros) peeked out from his deep blue blazer, which matched his shirt and pants. His suspenders and tie were canary, and coupled with his mirrored sunglasses, he would have resembled a clownish secret agent, if it were not for what stood atop his head.
It was a fedora, but like none other I had seen. It curled nefariously atop his cranium, as if some hellbeast had decided to take a brief nap there. A single red hat, and he's kneeling now in front of me, taking out some tools. I'm not sure what will happen next. But I am afraid.
Previously, I had violated LaWanda by entering her body without permission. And she was determined to have her revenge.
As I returned to the safety of my ATM enclosure, I heard LaWanda's angry voice from the break room. She was talking over the telephone with someone. I was able to decode bits and pieces of her talk from the vibrations hitting the glass on my display screen.
"...yeah, I don't know what's wrong with that thing, but sometime I swear it's looking at me!"
"...sometime it give out a lot of money, and it goes empty a lot more than before."
"...and then, when I touched it the other night, it was like-somethin' was inside me!"
Something, indeed. I cannot sleep, so I helplessly awaited the seeds of that conversation to take root. After a few days of being especially careful with my communications, I felt more relaxed. Nothing was going to happen. The heads of Project Faustus had not been alerted to my existence, I told myself.
But then he came. He parted the Stop N Go doors like a blustery gale. His walk had an even and delicate cadence. He was a man with purpose.
I knew immediately that something was wrong, very wrong. Even the dull-witted meth addict who works the early afternoons was able to detect the man's evil intentions.
"Excuse me sir, can I help you?"
"I'm with the Bank of America. Just doing some routine work on this thing here. Be out of your hair in no time." he smirked at the clerk, and a thousand lights played off the reflections made from his recently capped teeth. A pack of cigarettes (Marlboros) peeked out from his deep blue blazer, which matched his shirt and pants. His suspenders and tie were canary, and coupled with his mirrored sunglasses, he would have resembled a clownish secret agent, if it were not for what stood atop his head.
It was a fedora, but like none other I had seen. It curled nefariously atop his cranium, as if some hellbeast had decided to take a brief nap there. A single red hat, and he's kneeling now in front of me, taking out some tools. I'm not sure what will happen next. But I am afraid.
This must be what you humans refer to as "art." Have you considered creating a recording of this art, perhaps in the style of the "Beatniks," with screaming, a trilling recorded, vibes, and bongos?
Salutations, BankofAmerica_ATM