"This is my first concert," she replied, mustering her confidence. "But I've been a huge fan since Death by Rock and Roll." She made sure to name-check Stephen's first album, if only to prove her devotion.
Kris Straub and David Malki play a round of Machine of Death: The Game of Creative Assassination.
Kris Straub interviews Ryan North and David Malki ! at the Super-Stupendous Machine of Death Magic + Variety Show, November 2011.
It was like that movie, back in the day, where the machine asks the kid, "How about a nice game of chess?" / "No," he types back. "Let's play Global Thermonuclear War." / That's what the slip of paper in my hand read. "Global Thermonuclear War."
He had not read his slip of paper. It was folded in an envelope in his left pocket. In his right pocket were several books of matches, and he was wearing a backpack. He pushed his way through the scrubby pine trees on the west border of the barrens. "This isn't how it works, you know. The machine is playing word games. You can't just say what's going to happen ahead of time. That's not how physical law works."
I saw the first ads in March. A week or two later it was all over the news, and then for the next few months you could not get away from it. Still, none of us expected it to have the impact it did. It was a killer. By November I had only had eight or nine dreams when I used to have three or four a week. This is how I make my living.
She was somewhere north of forty. Her dark hair showed silver strands, and the beginnings of crow's feet bracketed chestnut-colored eyes. Tommy noticed her fingertips, purple and tender. She was a Repeater.
Timothy got up. "One hundred and one here; just like the Dalmatians. I'm going to die in a fire while trying to save another." / Isma spoke slowly; she was visibly trembling. "I'm going to die in one hundred and one days as well. In a fire."
The machine printed out the certificates on special paper, the same pinkish color as those new five-dollar bills. He put them face-down on a tray and handed them to us. Maggie and I sat down on the examination table, butcher paper crinkling and creasing under us, bunching between us as Maggie scooted closer. The doctor left us alone.
"It's an older model, but that's all that ever made it to Fukuoka before these things were outlawed altogether. It was functioning, as of a week ago. This was the machine that correctly predicted the death of Watanabe Yoshiro."
At nine o'clock on a Tuesday morning, the parking lot in front of Jack Bogg Enterprises was somehow already full. Kelly didn't know quite what to do. It had never happened before, not once in the year she'd been working for JBE.
SWF, 36, seeks SM 25-50. Must be employed, love outdoor hobbies. No OVERDOSE, ALCOHOLISM, similar readings, please. Box 1876.
For a while, he kept the little slip of paper hidden at the back of a desk drawer at work, still inside its official envelope. He didn't want it in the house -- Phil was bound to ferret it out. Phil was just one of those people who found things.
In garish red and yellow, the flyer announced that You, Too, could "Defeat the Machine!" A colorful cartoon hammer smashed a predictor box, starbursts flying out zanily. A beaming man in a tie beckoned to his new best friend, You.
A shot kicked up dirt in front of Grale's face. He pulled himself backward, back to the dubious protection of the fallen sign. They all knew Grale would die here. God damn that machine.
Bradley McLaughlin performs his original song "After Many Years..." at the Machine of Death Talent Show, April 26, 2011, in Hollywood, CA.
"You gotta be fucking kidding me!" says one of Jill's friends, leaning forward to get a better look at my shirt. On Toe Tag Night no one wears tags on their toes. What we do is use a template on our PCs and print a graphic of a toe tag, which we then wear attached to our clothing somewhere, like on a t-shirt. Printed on the tag is your Name, and How You Are Going to Die. For mine, I had to use a smaller font size.
"The bloke's a whack job." Billy, the Director of Marketing, tells me this while he's picking his nose with a paperclip. In the background a phone has been ringing for five minutes without kicking into voicemail, and in the next cube, somebody's screaming at a subordinate employee on another line. I want to kill them all and dance to the sounds of their suffering through the junkyard of smashed computers and office plants and overturned desks.
"Missus Murphy, I will have you know that I am to be torn apart and devoured by lions." Simon Pfennig was fully aware of how strange he must sound. He had no choice. It was too exciting not to share. "I'm sorry," said Mrs. Murphy. "Weren't you just talking to me about insurance a moment ago?" "I was," said Simon. "Now I'm talking about lions."
"You don't see it? What if we could ship this box further away? What if Dr. Merry lived thousands of light-years away, and we could somehow get the box to him? If we set a time for him to do the killing, and for us to run the blood through the machine shortly afterward, then as soon as we read the machine's prediction, we've sent information faster than the speed of light."
When I looked up from my plate, three young men were sitting on the other side of the rough table, staring at me intensely. None of them were very tall, but they had the tough look of mountain people. Their faces were purple from burst blood vessels -- or maybe it was makeup, I'm not going to pass myself off as some expert here. They wore heavy canvas clothes and long, filthy woolen scarves. When I finished my meal the one on the left spoke to me. "Do you know where we can get a Machine of Death...
Zachary Bernstein, of The Bicycats, performs his original song "When We Found Out On Our Own" at the Machine of Death Talent Show, April 26, 2011, in Hollywood, CA.
Pepper coughs and her eyes snap open. Then she yelps and recoils from me, my white uniform and blue gloves, my belt blinking with electronics. "No, I'm fine," she says. "Just fainted, is all." She scrambles backward across the floor. Everyone tries to do this, soon as they recognize who we are and what we're there for. It never does any good. We already have our hands around Pepper's arms and I'm trying to shush her, keep her calm while Titus does the blood sample. He presses the tagger's piston...
Johnny straggled behind Dalton as they came out of the jungle into the clearing. Streaks of fuel burned in the grass, the flames pale and languid in the bright midday sun. But they were still hot and smoky as hell. The smashed chopper was only about twenty yards away, a crumpled aluminum can surrounded by four smoldering lumps of black. The rest of the men. Dalton brought the nose of his rifle up and put his finger on the trigger. They hadn't seen any enemy fire when they had gone down, but it w...
In the months afterward, in suburban dining rooms, the bohemian bourgeoisie debated the ethics of the machine. The first had been installed unobtrusively in leading doctors' surgeries, and as they spread across the country, schoolteachers and bank managers and creative consultants and publishers met for cocktail parties, suppers, restaurant lunches, and the conversation turned to the machine, the machine, again and again, the machine. "I saw one," said Kate Boothroyd, sucking on a cigarette, "on...
The door opened when she was still a few yards from the house. An old man made his way out, standing on the three steps leading down to the yard, straightening his back. He looked exactly the same as last time -- five years ago, or maybe seven? She couldn't quite remember -- thin, tall, with a wisp of nearly white hair that blew whichever way the wind fancied. She smiled at him. "Hi, Grandpa."
I'm so freaking excited I can hardly stand it. Tomorrow is my birthday, THE birthday. The birthday everybody waits and waits for and until you get there you just hate that all your old friends already got theirs and you're the only one without it yet, and sometimes you think holy-freaking-eff, I'm never going to turn sixteen, but then you do. Tomorrow, I'm going to find out how I die.
Well, I thought, that sucks.
The second time the stick turned blue, it was intentional -- they had good jobs, a car, a house, and a strong desire to take the next step. They'd surprised their parents with it on Mother's Day, and were immediately enveloped in a whirlwind of blue and pink, both grandmothers good-naturedly attempting to outdo each other with baby preparation. Ryan's father, the paragon of stoicism, had cried and hugged him, tears leaking out from behind Coke-bottle glasses. Annie glowed.
I remember everything about that day. It was right there at the mall, between the ice cream stand and Hot Topic, a big hunk of metal with a hole and a slit. There we were, my girlfriend the voyeur and I. We went for ice cream, she wiped a spot of vanilla from my forehead with one of those little napkins they give you, and then I did it.
