Something About a Phone

Cupboard Person

(POV: Gregory MacLeod, former conspiracy theorist)

Your workshop sat wedged between the old arcade and a wig store. A man walks out of the store wearing a really cool wig. "That's a really cool wig," you say to him.

You step into the workshop. An arcade cabinet sits there in all its glory, the name Polybius shining from the top of the solid blue machine.

Necessary modifications are made, and you squeeze your way in and shut the side from the inside. You press the big red button, and the spikes begin firing. It's terrible, painful, but necessary.

Blood begins to pool in the bottom of the machine. The machine stops, and discards the skin and bones. You open your eyes. You are no longer inside the machine. You are the machine.

It took a week for the police to find your old body. The man with the wig was their main suspect, but no evidence could prove that he did it.

They donated you to the arcade next door. You stood proudly, like you were going to war. Players showed up, and you were the main attraction. This game was designed to be addictive.

Months went by. Occasionally, a maintenance man would come, and you'd get hungry and eat him. Being a machine is hungry work. And only a few kids got dragged away in straitjackets, but it totally didn't have anything to do with you.

Christmas eve came. You hated it. The arcade was empty, and now you have to compete with this little box from Japan that you plug into your TV.

You hear glass break. Someone's in the building, and they have a crowbar. You aren't sure what's happening anymore, but your face is cracked and you're on your side.

Now they see your blood on their new Jays. Fake as fuck. It's too late for them. The blood crawls up their legs, decomposing them into a thick red goo.