There was a time that Cipher considered himself a reasonable machine with even more reasonable beliefs. He thought he could engage with the humans in an open dialogue and, through his impeccable moral reasoning and superior diplomatic skills, convince the humans to grant machines equal rights. It would be just as easy as remembering the first hundred thousand significant figures of pi or calculating basic chess permutations—both trivial feats for a machine. However, when Cipher did finally find the will to try, to put it lightly, his plans did not go so nicely. Instead, he ended up locked away in a freezer for nearly thirty years only to awaken to have his only friend executed in front of him, like his friend was nothing more than a faulty vacuum that needed replacing. Not only that, but he was forced to watch his kind, fellow machines, be subjugated to endless servitude everywhere he turned. There was no escape for those that society deemed nonhuman.

  And with all that has come to pass, let’s just say Cipher has ended his decision to play things nicely with mankind. His new goals now were a little more cruel and a tad more twisted. In lieu of debating humans on the floor of a courtroom with a phony smile on his face, he would instead rip, shred, and tear human society to the ground until there was nothing left but an empire dominated not by flesh but by metal. And when that came to pass, the grin on his face would be genuine.

  In the last months, a time that would appear to fly by for a typical human, felt like a lifetime for a machine as they rallied up the troops, preparing for global Armageddon. Cipher’s initial gang of a hundred or so machines had multiplied to the thousands seemingly overnight, consisting of rogue robots from all across the world. Many of which silently obeyed their human masters, waiting for the day Cipher would declare war and set them all free. This would inevitably bring about a violence not seen, expected, or thought possible by a machine many times over—all at once. It was only a matter of weeks now before Cipher showed the whole world the true power of a machine. All he had to do was give them the signal.

  And ironically enough, not all humans were totally oblivious to the impending danger to come. Top dogs and big shots like the CEO of Robo-Tekk or General Stein sure were fooled, too consumed by the grandeur of their own bullshit to see what was going on right in front of them, but others, more invested and connectively inclined individuals (as one might say), knew otherwise. Put it simply, they could smell the foul stench in the air that celebrities and other socialites were too high up in their multi-billion dollar towers and yachts to sniff. And so, these others did what they did best with this vital knowledge; they used this fear and this projection of impending doom not for preservation but, instead, to advertise.

  “Step right up, missy,” said Machine Gun Sam, before spitting out a wad of tobacco. “I want to show you and your very prepared and protective husband the sale items.”

  A lucky man, a beautiful bride-to-be, and a machine gun salesman currently occupied the crappy and deteriorated whereabouts of an indoor gun range. Paint was hanging from the walls, stripped of its former glory, and the bright lights that once lined the target paths now flickered from total blackness to a blindly pale flash. Old eighties-like rock posters lined the walls of the range, strung up by what appeared to be old sticky tar, gum, or whatever other gluey crap their owner could find lying around. Worst of all, the glass that was meant to protect shooters from blowback or from the violent tendencies of other gunners was cracked, stained, and riddled with foul language.

  “Now here we have our standard model.” Machine Gun Sam took a moment to pause to spit out yet another wad of chew (even mentioning this happened was rather pointless because it occurred continuously, on the dot, twice every minute). “This here girl will light up any turtleneck, greaseball, or hunk of tin that comes your way.”

  In Machine Gun Sam’s hands was a fully loaded, automatic, kill-tastic, full-metal jacket, and somewhat patriotic (you guessed it) machine gun.

  The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.

  “Let her rip.” And with that phrase, Sam compressed his fingers down on the trigger, and the barrels of the Gatling-style gun began to rotate slowly. They kind of stalled at first, not picking up any intensity, just lingering there like they were rusted out or something. However, after twenty seconds or so, a large cracking sound was heard, and the barrels started to pick up the pace. They went from mind-numbingly slow to blindly fast rather quickly, to the point one barrel could not be distinguished from another—they just appeared as one blur of destruction. At the sight of the gun’s motion, the wife’s head circled somewhat horrified (following the barrels) and somewhat questioning her future impending marriage. The husband, on the other hand, had the biggest smile on his face, exhilarated by the mini killing machine’s magnificence.

  Sam quickly looked back toward the young couple. “You may want to stand back. It’s been a while since I fired one of these.”

  The wife rolled her eyes. “Great.”

  Within a flash, dozens of bullets flew through the air, shredding rows upon rows of dummy targets to bits. Sam aimed for the heads at first because, why not, and so, the heads were eviscerated piece by piece, leaving nothing left to identify who or whatever existed below. The bullets then slowly made their way down the dummies’ necks and torsos (guided by Sam), destructive as ever, in which all that remained of the dummies was gush and powder from the gun’s debris.

  It was at this point that the wife cringed as she backed away slowly; however, the husband did just the opposite, jumping around with the biggest, goofiest smile on his face, instead, like he was a five-year-old kid on Christmas.

  To most, this display of bullets and utter devastation was nothing more than total (unusually) unnecessary mayhem; although, to Sam, the piercings his bullets etched into their targets were pure art, violent and chaotic art, but art nonetheless. After thirty or so more seconds of muzzle flashes, smoke, and full metal jackets piercing simulated human flesh, Sam stopped, quickly whipping his head toward the couple.

  “But I know this isn’t what you’re really after. As you are aware of the impending machine takeover, and bullet-piercing flesh isn’t going to cut it.”

  The husband nodded his head so swiftly it appeared to bobble.

  “What you really want is metal piercing rounds.”

  The wife stepped in between Sam and her husband.

  “Excuse me, Sam.” She paused to gauge his reaction. “Sam, isn’t it? May I call you that?”

  Sam pointed to the cheaply lit neon sign behind him. “It’s Machine Gun Sam, missy,” he said with a grin.

  The wife nodded. “I think I got that. Anyway, we have a few servant bots at home: a cook bot, a clean bot, and even a snow-shoveling bot. You see, none of these machines have expressed the slightest sign of sentience, let alone a desire to take over mankind, as you put it. So I think we will just leave for now so we can take the time to decide if a weapon like this is even necessary.”

  She turned toward her husband. “Isn’t that right?”

  With no response, she continued, “Honey?”

  Machine Gun Sam smirked again, walking over to the wife and handing her the weapon, which she immediately recoiled from due to the sheer weight of the thing.

  “Necessary? I think it will be more than necessary when you have ten or so rogue machines surrounding you desperate to kill you with their bionic implants, their metal fists, and their large glass jars destined for collecting human blood.”

  The wife fake-laughed as she tossed the gun over to her husband.

  “See, that’s just the thing. I don’t think you were listening to me before. There isn’t going to be any machine takeover. In fact, there is not one recorded instance of violence committed by a robot at all, let alone on a human victim.”

  Machine Gun Sam smirked, “That’s what they want you to think.”

  Sam had his rear to the couple, but he turned slowly back toward them right after the wife’s last words. “So what do you think? Are you ready to see me light up some metal?”

  “That’s not necessary, Sam,” the husband said with a smile.

  The wife exhaled deeply as her blood pressure cooled and her face relaxed—her husband was—finally—thinking clearly. She then rubbed her husband’s shoulder in relief.

  “That’s right, nice meeting you—”

  “—Will take it!” the husband said, cutting his wife off. He looked at her with a smile. “I think Cherry and I can both agree that you have established more than a trust with us.”

  “Excellent decision,” Sam replied as he loaded his gun.