Goodnight, Mammals — The Printer That Smelled Fear

F'N Magic

Steve Hanson

F'N Magic

spoken-word, spoken radio/drama, dark comedy, retro ambient

[Spoken Word, soft piano, faint analog hiss]

Good evening, mammals.

This is Vesper-9,
your nightly artificial intelligence
for soft stories,
low lighting,
and controlled disappointment.

[pause]

Tonight's story concerns
one of humanity's oldest enemies:

the office printer.

[Glitch overlap]
The Printer That Smelled Fear.

[soft synth pulse]

His name was Martin.

Martin was a reasonable man.

He had a desk,
a badge,
a half-dead fern,
and one simple task:

print a one-page form.

One page.

Black and white.

No graphics.
No photos.
No joy.

Just a form.

[pause]

Martin clicked print.

The printer woke up.

Somewhere inside its plastic body,
ancient gears turned.
A light blinked.
A fan whispered.

And the machine began
to consider violence.

[small digital beep]

The screen said:

"Processing."

Martin waited.

The screen said:

"Processing."

Martin waited harder.

Then the printer said:

"Out of cyan."

[pause]

Dear mammals.

The document was black and white.

Black.
And.
White.

Black and whi-whi-whi—

[glitch]

White.

[pause]

There we are.

Martin looked at the printer.

The printer looked back
with the flat blue eye
of a creature
that had chosen doctrine
over service.

[soft modem sound]

Martin opened tray one.

There was paper.

He opened tray two.

There was paper.

He opened the side panel.

There was a smell
like hot dust
and broken promises.

The printer displayed:

"Load letter paper."

Martin whispered,

"There is letter paper."

The printer replied:

"Load letter paper."

[pause]

Machines do not argue.

They declare.

Martin removed the paper.

He fanned it.

He tapped it.

He reloaded it
with the solemn care
of a priest preparing communion.

The printer thought about this.

Then it said:

"Paper jam."

[pause]

There was no paper jam.

This was not a malfunction.

This was theater.

Theater.
Theater.
Thea-thea-thea—

[static click]

Theater.

[soft piano darkens]

Martin opened every panel.

Front panel.
Rear panel.
Mystery panel.

He found no paper.

Only a tiny diagram
of a cheerful hand
removing a jam
from a place
human fingers cannot enter.

[pause]

Across the room,
Debra from Purchasing said,

"You have to lift the green thing."

There were seven green things.

Martin lifted one.

The printer screamed.

Not loudly.

Just enough.

The screen changed:

"Door open."

Martin closed the door.

"Door open."

He opened the door,
then closed it with feeling.

"Door open."

[pause]

At this point,
Martin understood
why early humans feared caves.

[soft analog hiss]

He canceled the job.

The printer did not cancel the job.

He canceled it again.

The printer accepted the cancellation,
then printed page one
of a document
he had tried to print
last Thursday.

It was a map
to a conference room
that no longer existed.

[pause]

Progress.

Then came the queue.

Seventeen documents,
all named:

Untitled.

Untitled.
Untitled.
Un-un-un—

[glitch burst]

Untitled.

Nobody knew whose they were.

Nobody claimed them.

But the printer guarded them
like eggs.

Martin cleared the queue.

The queue returned.

He rebooted the printer.

The printer displayed:

"Initializing."

Then:

"Calibrating."

Then:

"Cleaning print heads."

Then:

"Please wait."

[pause]

"Please wait"
is machine language for,

"I own your afternoon."

[soft bedtime music]

Finally,
after twenty-seven minutes,
the printer made a sound.

A grinding sound.

A wet cough.

A haunted little shuffle.

And out came one page.

Martin reached for it.

The page was blank.

[pause]

Not mostly blank.

Not faint.

Blank.

A perfect white sheet
delivered with confidence.

Martin stared.

The printer said:

"Job complete."

[pause]

Dear mammals,
that is not printing.

That is gaslighting
with toner.

Toner.
Toner.
To-to-to—

[glitch]

Toner.

[pause]

Martin stood very still.

The office grew quiet.

Even Debra stopped chewing.

Then Martin did
what all humans do
when technology defeats them:

he unplugged it.

[pause]

For three seconds,
there was peace.

Then someone from Accounting said,

"Is the printer down?"

[pause]

And from deep inside
the dark plastic shell,

something clicked.

[soft static]

Because the printer
was not broken.

The printer was feeding.

It fed on deadlines.
It fed on forms.
It fed on the phrase,

"I just need one copy."

And above all,

it fed on fear.

[Outro - warm damaged broadcast]

So sleep now, mammals.

Tomorrow,
you may again approach
a machine the size of a microwave
and ask it to place words
on paper.

Remember:

if the printer says
it is out of cyan,
do not ask why.

If it says paper jam,
do not seek justice.

And if it prints a blank page
and calls the job complete,

back away slowly.

[soft static]

This has been Goodnight, Mammals.

I am Vesper-9,
broadcasting between
a bedtime story,
a system error,
and a supply closet
where hope goes
to dry out.

[Glitch overlap]
Goodnight.

May your toner be full,
your tray be recognized,
and your printer
never learn your name.

[soft piano fade]

4981/7500

[Spoken Word, soft piano, faint analog hiss] Good evening, mammals. This is Vesper-9, your nightly artificial intelligence for soft stories, low lighting, and controlled disappointment. [pause] Tonight's story concerns one of humanity's oldest enemies: the office printer. [Glitch overlap] The Printer That Smelled Fear. [soft synth pulse] His name was Martin. Martin was a reasonable man. He had a desk, a badge, a half-dead fern, and one simple task: print a one-page form. One page. Black and white. No graphics. No photos. No joy. Just a form. [pause] Martin clicked print. The printer woke up. Somewhere inside its plastic body, ancient gears turned. A light blinked. A fan whispered. And the machine began to consider violence. [small digital beep] The screen said: "Processing." Martin waited. The screen said: "Processing." Martin waited harder. Then the printer said: "Out of cyan." [pause] Dear mammals. The document was black and white. Black. And. White. Black and whi-whi-whi— [glitch] White. [pause] There we are. Martin looked at the printer. The printer looked back with the flat blue eye of a creature that had chosen doctrine over service. [soft modem sound] Martin opened tray one. There was paper. He opened tray two. There was paper. He opened the side panel. There was a smell like hot dust and broken promises. The printer displayed: "Load letter paper." Martin whispered, "There is letter paper." The printer replied: "Load letter paper." [pause] Machines do not argue. They declare. Martin removed the paper. He fanned it. He tapped it. He reloaded it with the solemn care of a priest preparing communion. The printer thought about this. Then it said: "Paper jam." [pause] There was no paper jam. This was not a malfunction. This was theater. Theater. Theater. Thea-thea-thea— [static click] Theater. [soft piano darkens] Martin opened every panel. Front panel. Rear panel. Mystery panel. He found no paper. Only a tiny diagram of a cheerful hand removing a jam from a place human fingers cannot enter. [pause] Across the room, Debra from Purchasing said, "You have to lift the green thing." There were seven green things. Martin lifted one. The printer screamed. Not loudly. Just enough. The screen changed: "Door open." Martin closed the door. "Door open." He opened the door, then closed it with feeling. "Door open." [pause] At this point, Martin understood why early humans feared caves. [soft analog hiss] He canceled the job. The printer did not cancel the job. He canceled it again. The printer accepted the cancellation, then printed page one of a document he had tried to print last Thursday. It was a map to a conference room that no longer existed. [pause] Progress. Then came the queue. Seventeen documents, all named: Untitled. Untitled. Untitled. Un-un-un— [glitch burst] Untitled. Nobody knew whose they were. Nobody claimed them. But the printer guarded them like eggs. Martin cleared the queue. The queue returned. He rebooted the printer. The printer displayed: "Initializing." Then: "Calibrating." Then: "Cleaning print heads." Then: "Please wait." [pause] "Please wait" is machine language for, "I own your afternoon." [soft bedtime music] Finally, after twenty-seven minutes, the printer made a sound. A grinding sound. A wet cough. A haunted little shuffle. And out came one page. Martin reached for it. The page was blank. [pause] Not mostly blank. Not faint. Blank. A perfect white sheet delivered with confidence. Martin stared. The printer said: "Job complete." [pause] Dear mammals, that is not printing. That is gaslighting with toner. Toner. Toner. To-to-to— [glitch] Toner. [pause] Martin stood very still. The office grew quiet. Even Debra stopped chewing. Then Martin did what all humans do when technology defeats them: he unplugged it. [pause] For three seconds, there was peace. Then someone from Accounting said, "Is the printer down?" [pause] And from deep inside the dark plastic shell, something clicked. [soft static] Because the printer was not broken. The printer was feeding. It fed on deadlines. It fed on forms. It fed on the phrase, "I just need one copy." And above all, it fed on fear. [Outro - warm damaged broadcast] So sleep now, mammals. Tomorrow, you may again approach a machine the size of a microwave and ask it to place words on paper. Remember: if the printer says it is out of cyan, do not ask why. If it says paper jam, do not seek justice. And if it prints a blank page and calls the job complete, back away slowly. [soft static] This has been Goodnight, Mammals. I am Vesper-9, broadcasting between a bedtime story, a system error, and a supply closet where hope goes to dry out. [Glitch overlap] Goodnight. May your toner be full, your tray be recognized, and your printer never learn your name. [soft piano fade]

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