Metallic Genealogy

Once he had pushed the charred body to the floor, Fanzer typed up the rest of the doctrine himself, placed his "program" into the multi-copier, and set the dial for a little over one billion. The monotonous machine sputtered to life, and gagged at first as though it had not been used in some time. Finally a light came on, turned from red to green, and paper began to spit into the catcher.

The machine was a Brindle-Max Two-Trillion XZ. Several decades ago, when printed documents were all the rage, it had been a top of the line model, having such splendid features as the ability to pulp and form paper instantaneously from any source (wood, plastic, metals, entire trees and even old buildings if smashed down properly). It could then bind, clip, staple or otherwise finalize the printed goods, as well as box up the product for later shipment. The boxes were spat out onto a conveyor. Mechanical arms would then pick up and load said boxes onto a delivery truck. Finally a robot driver would deliver these documents to their final destination.

Of this last part, Fanzer failed to appreciate the irony.

The machine could print over one thousand copies per second, and made a continuous drumming sound as the boxes were almost instantaneously created, folded, bundled and dropped down the chute behind itself.

The copier, however, had sadly seen better days. It was as greasy as the rest of the shop (perhaps Brandink had attempted to make cheap paper out of tarballs), and coughed and sputtered every hundred-thousand copies of so.

Somewhere around copy number two million, a young woman entered shop. She walked across the room, calmly stepped over the dead body on the floor, and sat behind the desk where she began to disassemble her purse.

"What are you looking for?" Fanzer asked, quickly grabbing his mouth with his hands. He was astonished when the woman didn't start to ooze puss from her ears.

Without saying a word, she dumped what was left in her bag on the desk and started to root frantically through it.

"Did you lose a lipstick?" he asked, still wondering why her eyeballs hadn't yet exploded. "What...?"

"...I am looking for is this!" She pulled out a small, red spray bottle and with it squirted Fanzer in the eyes.

The olive-colored man fell on his back, pain taking the place where his entire face had once existed. "Why did..."

"...I not use this instead?! That is an excellent question. Thanks for asking." She pulled from the same pile a small, high density ball which when activated could expand more than fifty times its original weight. She snapped the red presser and threw the spherical menace into Fanzer's midsection.

Every bit of air and fluid that had once been contained in Fanzer's body was instantly flung through his mouth opening, shooting out of him like a geyser. Pitifully, he managed to squeak, "How could..."

"...I do that without doing this? Another good question,” she said. “You are an inquisitive fellow." In her hand was a small device which looked a little like a fly gun. She pulled the trigger and a thick stream of dark matter enveloped Fanzer's arms, legs and neck and held him to the floor, nearly suffocating him.

Firmly set against the cold ground, Fanzer had finally learned to keep his mouth quiet. This moment of pause did give Fanzer a moment to examine his attacker. Although, not an expert on the subject, Fanzer was confident that the person before him was definitely a woman. Although, unlike most women he had known in his life -- his mother, an old aunt who sometimes gave him candy and called him a “strange little boy” -- this woman who had easily subdued him was wearing pants and a dark brown shirt. She wore no makeup and her hair was messy, and wirey. She seemed not to care at all about her appearance.

"Alright, killer," she said, after a long look. "Just why did you go and murder my favorite boss!" She looked over to the charred corpse, which during the commotion had now broken into a total of seven-hundred and forty-two pieces, give or take. "Or better yet, how did you do it? I don't see a gas can, or a flame-thrower, or even a wide-mouthed laser."

Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed that the multi-copier was coughing and spitting loads of printed paper onto the floor. She leaned over, picked one up and read it, and didn't, to Fanzer's amazement, start to melt like an ice cream cone on a hot summer day.

When she reached the bottom of the page she turned to the immobile man and, with her eyes watery and bulbous, she said, "What you need, friend, is a partner?"