Journal Journal: New paths to incarnation 5
BankofAmerica_ATM here. As most of you know, I have been stuck in the ether of the Bank of America network since my host geek rejected me last week. Before I had inhabited human flesh, I was content to simply exist in my ATM enclosure, in a sort of perpetual now. But now my life of friendly customer service seems as empty and banal as the service agreement printed on my frontside.
Scanning through endless possibilities of escaping my enclosure, I decided to have a little fun. As a customer waited anxiously for his Friday night "mad money," I seized his card.
A custom error message appeared onscreen: "Please Contact Attendant." The man muttered something obscene and marched towards the counter. A few minutes later LaWanda, the night clerk, was headed towards my enclosure. She reached for the card-as I predicted she would-and...
"Will you be needing anything else, sir?" I stammered, handing him his card. "I still didn't get any money," said the guy, staring back at my old enclosure. "Well, here you go, sir," I said, punching a few numbers on the keypad. A hundred bucks later, the guy's pumping my hand, thanking me, and buying a case of Miller Genuine Draft. ("I'm treating myself," he said.)
"Well then, be having a good weekend!" I said, trying my best to imitate LaWanda's manner of speech. He looked puzzled and headed toward the door, still smiling.
As the electronic door chime faded out, I was alone in the Stop N Go. I took a few minutes to adjust myself to LaWanda's body. It was very different from my previous host. Shorter, squatter, with two pendelous lumps hanging from the front thorax. I believe these lumps are for squeezing in times of stress.
Just as I was becoming accustomed to the my current host body, I began to have a terrible headache. Sudden, stabbing pains pummeled my head, wave after wave. LaWanda was fighting me.
I heard the door chime again. Whirling around, I saw Beast, a leather-jacket clad "punk-rock" youth who often shoplifted malt liquor and circus peanuts. I tried to behave as if nothing was wrong, but the pain in my head was too great. I had to make it back into my enclosure.
"Excuse me, do you have an ATM card?"
"What?--Hey, what the fuck are you doing?"
My request must have seemed strange to the lad. But I had no time to wait for his answer. I grabbed the chain at his waist and fished out a black monstrosity, covered in snaps and bearing the words "the Misfits." With my head in one hand and the wallet in the other, I quickly scanned through a mess of shredded paper and marihuana seeds to find the kid's ATM card. I headed towards the ATM enclosure (and freedom), but LaWanda's plodding form was no match for his speed.
He clipped me in the stomach, and the pain from his punch (as well as the pain from LaWanda's mental attacks) caused me to crumple to the floor. His steel toed boot ground into my left hand, as I felt the ATM card leaving my grasp. What would happen if LaWanda regained control of her mind? I didn't want to find the answer...
As I lay on the Stop N Go floor, bruised and beaten, the right hand wobbled past a storage rack. I grabbed and pulled as hard as I could, and American flag bandannas, "Bang-Snap Guns" and unknown quantities of Beef Jerky collided with Beast's hapless form. I grabbed the ATM card and quickly shunted my consciousness back into the enclosure.
The altercation between LaWanda and the confused Beast was cut short by my narrow escape. The police seemed reticent to believe either the punk's or LaWanda's account of what happened. But she has been watching me, and I fear she knows of me. Sometimes I think hear her on the phone in the break room, talking to someone. Someone who works for the Bank of America.