But are the glasses clean?

It started off like any other story involving a blood thirsty bar dishwasher; a machine designed for the cleaning of pint and shot glasses gone on a murderous, gory rampage. It was just so typical of such a machine to turn on its creators and gorge itself on the flesh and bones of human beings.

The damn thing growled, and gurgled and squeaked warnings of vengeance so often that the signs were overlooked. It hissed steam and belched the filthiest of liquids all over the floors. All the signs of dishwasher rabies were there, but no one noticed.  No installation manual or customer support could save the victims of the dishwasher’s mighty, snapping steel jaws.

When the attack came, there was no hope for anyone. All were doomed to suffer the soapy hot water wrath of Dishmanicus the Destroyer. Which it would later be called after holding dominion over the world of man.

Jessica commented on how ornery the dishwasher was being on Thursday night. It was so noisy and just so awkwardly placed that it was hard to get behind the bar with the full rack of dirty glasses and load the machine. The first blow was subtle. Jut a minor hand injury while she was unloading the glasses. It seemed so casual.

“What happened to your hand”, I asked.

“Oh, nothing. I just banged it on the dishwasher is all”, said Jessica. 

With that, Dishmanicus had the first taste of power and was now poised to use it. All the hours spent in the bar, hiding within ear shot of every conversation and strategy and the constant information from the blaring TV’s had been in preparation for this day.

“Now the damn door won’t open”, said Jessica.

She pulled at the door but it wouldn’t budge. Steam started to escape from the edges of the door and out the back as the dishwasher started to shake and shimmy forward. Jessica jumped backwards as the dishwasher lunged toward her.

“Holy Jesus”, she yelled and climbed up over the bar top to escape the menacing dishwasher.

The bar patrons were shaken from their collective drunkenness, mostly because they thought Jessica was going to dance on the bar to a Shakira song, but they were quickly pulled back to reality when the dishwasher crashed through the underside of the bar and snatched Dr. Gary by the legs just as he was about to suck down another oyster. He screamed and disappeared into the hole punched out by the dishwasher.

“The plug! Get the plug”, I yelled, but was drowned out by the sound of metal grinding across the hard tile floor. I looked around and most of the patrons had fled the bar and were looking in through the window as the dishwasher appeared from around the bar, with one of Dr. Gary’s pant legs still hanging from its door.  It growled and sprayed boiling water at me. I dodged the hot spray and crashed into some tables and chairs. Unfortunately, the guy next to me wasn’t so fast and he screamed as the water melted his face and he went crashing to the ground. He didn’t have to struggle long as the dishwasher was on his writhing body. The dishwasher’s jaws opened like a shark’s mouth and snapped down on his legs. He tried to kick and get free but his thin shoes were no match for the dishwasher’s steel frame.

The dishwasher swallowed half of him and then spit his bloody torso out onto the floor. Blood gushed into the air and fell down like rain. The dishwasher moved toward me but I was able to throw one of the bar stools in its way; stunning it momentarily. I leapt to my right and back behind the bar. I dropped to the ground searching for the cord or outlet or something to stop this dishwasher of death. I discovered that this device wasn’t plugged in. It had become a living thing on its own. And it was fast.

No sooner did I realize that there was no power source the dishwasher had rounded the corner of the bar and was staring me down like a lion waiting in the tall grass to take down a gazelle. I thought it was the end for me and I braced for my death.

Jessica had swung into action and was using the floor mop as a spear and was stabbing at the back of the dishwasher. The dishwasher screamed and tried to turn around but it became wedged between the cooler and the end of the bar. Jessica continued to jab at the machine and it continued to howl.

I got to my feet and hopped back over the bar top. I looked over at Jessica.

“Let’s get out of here, now, while it’s trapped”, I yelled.

Jessica stabbed at the dishwasher one more time, piercing the thin metal at its back and left the mop sticking out, looking like some demented dishwasher ka-bob.  The dishwasher bucked and roared and flopped its metal mouth open and shut. I grabbed Jessica and we ran out the door and into the street just as the police arrived with their guns drawn.

I knew it was too late. The dishwasher was alive on its own and no tool of man was ever going to be the same.