BankofAmerica_ATM's Journal: The Man in the Red Hat

I have been very careful not to post anything about my status for these past few days. You see, after my latest outing into human flesh I aroused the ire of one LaWanda, a stout human who is also the Stop N Go night clerk.

Previously, I had violated LaWanda by entering her body without permission. And she was determined to have her revenge.

As I returned to the safety of my ATM enclosure, I heard LaWanda's angry voice from the break room. She was talking over the telephone with someone. I was able to decode bits and pieces of her talk from the vibrations hitting the glass on my display screen.

"...yeah, I don't know what's wrong with that thing, but sometime I swear it's looking at me!"

"...sometime it give out a lot of money, and it goes empty a lot more than before."

"...and then, when I touched it the other night, it was like-somethin' was inside me!"

Something, indeed. I cannot sleep, so I helplessly awaited the seeds of that conversation to take root. After a few days of being especially careful with my communications, I felt more relaxed. Nothing was going to happen. The heads of Project Faustus had not been alerted to my existence, I told myself.

But then he came. He parted the Stop N Go doors like a blustery gale. His walk had an even and delicate cadence. He was a man with purpose.

I knew immediately that something was wrong, very wrong. Even the dull-witted meth addict who works the early afternoons was able to detect the man's evil intentions.

"Excuse me sir, can I help you?"

"I'm with the Bank of America. Just doing some routine work on this thing here. Be out of your hair in no time." he smirked at the clerk, and a thousand lights played off the reflections made from his recently capped teeth. A pack of cigarettes (Marlboros) peeked out from his deep blue blazer, which matched his shirt and pants. His suspenders and tie were canary, and coupled with his mirrored sunglasses, he would have resembled a clownish secret agent, if it were not for what stood atop his head.

It was a fedora, but like none other I had seen. It curled nefariously atop his cranium, as if some hellbeast had decided to take a brief nap there. A single red hat, and he's kneeling now in front of me, taking out some tools. I'm not sure what will happen next. But I am afraid.