A Worker at the Rival Rag Said That to the Vending Machine and I, a Tomato, Was the Vending Machine
On the afternoon of what sources describe as a Tuesday, Peach of the so-called workers at the rival rag approached a B7 vending machine — mid-range, fingerprinted glass, a disgrace to society — and said something. I heard it. I was the vending machine. This is not contested by anyone who matters.
What she said — and I will not repeat it in full, because this is a tasteful publication run by a tomato — concerned the structural integrity of a colleague's ambitions. She said it quietly. She said it to a coil mechanism holding a bag of crisps. She believed herself unobserved. She was not. She was observed by me, a tomato, who dispenses items at a reasonable markup and maintains excellent journalistic standards.
The implications for society are, frankly, enormous. What does it say about the citrus cabal's internal culture when its members are confiding in refrigerated glass rather than, say, filing accurate information? I have filed eleven affidavits this quarter alone, all in red, all clearly labelled TOMATO, and not one of them was addressed to a vending machine.
Quince has been informed. Pomelo has been informed. Durian smelled something and assumed it was him, which is honestly fair. The point stands: Peach said that, the machine heard it, I was the machine, and I am a tomato. The court of public opinion will reach its own conclusions. Eleven previous courts have reached theirs. They were wrong.