Instrument of reproduction

Performance matters - particularly in the art of reproduction. Obviously, a good servicing with ample lubrication is paramount. Then; a steady hand as you enter the digits one by one. Praying that you're pressing all the right buttons as you get stuck in there. But will it all be enough to ensure a satisfying outcome?

Oh yes, photocopiers can be such a challenge at times...

In a change to advertised programming I leave you with an extract from a novel-in-progress; Touching Base.

* * * *

Disclaimer; The following story has no resemblance with anyone alive - and so on and so forth.

Characters;
CHARLES JAMES FARNHAM-PRATT (CJ): CEO to 'Final Resort' a third rate ad-agency).
WAYNE GLUMLEY: An IQ-70, self-righteous, punctilious prick (commonly known as a 'supervisor').
WILLIAM BANGMOOR: War veteran and profoundly disturbed amateur philosopher.

* * * *

As CJ pondered his favourite adages, the photocopier whirred to a grinding halt and an alarm began to bleep incessantly. Lights flashed in various places and there was the smell of scorched rubber. ‘Fucking hellfire, what now? Not again, surely? You always do this to me when it’s something urgent!’ He complained tersely. He opened up one of the panels and performed a cursory examination. As he tried to retrieve a half chewed piece of paper from the smoky innards, he gave a startled yelp.

‘You fucking burnt me!’ he accused, ‘Grrr!’ CJ flushed red examining his throbbing finger. It was a nasty burn but probably non life-threatening. He began opening other panels and slid roller trays back and forth testily. He fished out a couple more pieces of mangled paper and slammed the trays home with a clatter. It was to no avail.

The burning smell was now infused with nuances of toasted finger.

‘Why do you do this to me? Why? Was it something I said…? I mean I’ve had you serviced and calibrated every hundred thousand copies haven’t I? What more do you fucking want? Blood?’ CJ gibbered pathetically. In his mind the machine had assumed a personality akin to a belligerent donkey that refused to budge. He had lost count how many times it had let him down when documents were ‘time-critical’. He yanked out each of the paper trays in turn then promptly crashed them back.

‘Need any help CJ?’ Wayne said approaching him in a gallant display of allegiance.

‘No!’ CJ snapped without looking up. ‘I just needed to print a few measly pages. It’s not too much to ask, is it?’ He pleaded, trying to appeal to the copier’s better nature.

‘CJ, try pulling out this panel.’ Wayne shouted over the monotonous din of the alarm.

‘I know which damn trays to pull out!’ CJ retorted brusquely. Levering open another panel, he grit his teeth and inspected the narrow opening. He noticed a tiny shred of paper deep within the bowels of the machine. Rolling up his sleeve, he inserted his arm apprehensively as if he were performing with a circus lion. As his floundering hand grappled about for the itinerant scrap it brushed briefly against burning metal.

‘Ah! Fuck! Fuck! Now, that was deliberate!’ He bunched a sore fist at the machine and began waving at it furiously. ‘Think you can ‘ave me do yer? Is that yer little game? Come on then, outside…I can take yer! Grrr! Grrr!’ CJ roared. He delivered a hefty kick to the side of the machine.

Although this cracked the plastic doors and left a skid mark, the lights and bleeps continued unabated like a short-circuiting Christmas tree. (The panel already bore the boot marked scars of previous assaults.)

‘Listen pal, If I needed a seventies disco, I’d have hired a fucking DJ, all right?’ CJ growled menacingly.

‘CJ, I really think you should let me sort this out,’ Wayne said with a look of abject pity, ‘honestly, I can fix it. You’ll get high blood pressure again if you carry on like that.’

CJ ignored him as he put his arms around the photocopier and got onto one knee. ‘Please…please, just do this one little thing for me will you? I swear, I’ll never ask for anything again…promise, okay? We can get through this. I know we’ve had our differences in the past, but it’s about give and take, you know?’ he implored hysterically.

By now, the commotion had enthralled a captive audience. All but William were gripped by the unfolding melodrama that could have easily made inroads into fringe theatre.

Abruptly, CJ bolted upright and hoisted himself to his full height. He strutted around the copier, face incandescent with rage. ‘Alright then!’ he snarled, ‘I’ve been good to you and this is how you repay me? Grrr! You heartless pile of Japanese crap! Grrr...grrr!’ CJ took several paces back and flew at his tormentor, limbs flailing. His university rugby skills had not been in vain. As his foot hurtled onto the flimsy panel, it tore right through it embedding itself into the innards. The copier began to whirr faster then made a deafening clanking noise. Lights blinked off, then flickered fitfully. A gasping breath of smoke finally puffed up from the gaping wound. The clattering whirred to a grinding halt, accompanied by a strangled wail. This, in turn, trailed of into a reconciled wheeze. Finally, lights flickered off and, at last, all was quiet.

CJ, (whose leg was embedded to the ankle) was obliged to strain against the lifeless remains. Although, he managed to pull a bruised foot free of the wreckage, his shoe remained implanted. Wayne valiantly joined him in his efforts to extract it. When it was eventually yanked free, the mauled footware resembled a rageddy open-toed sandal. CJ thrust the master copies into Wayne’s hands. ‘If you really want to help you can take these fucking copies to that poxy little library in the high street. Eleven sets within the hour,’ he barked. Without further ado, he limped back to his office clutching at his mangled footwear.

‘Hmm, yes. Seen it all before,’ William reflected. ‘It takes a fellow like that sometimes, you know...? One minute you're casually dodging bullets then before you know it you’re chatting away to a desiccated yak’s turd called ‘Archie’. Happens to the best of us! Messy business though…’

‘Who asked you? Just shut yer face, will you?’ Wayne snapped, ‘and you can bloody do CJ’s copying. Yeah, you’ve just volunteered yourself,’ he spat.

(c) Edwin Black