Its Socks by Edward Drobinski - HTML preview

Its Socks

Page 28

was snatched mid-spin. No trace. Just a faint scent of ozone and regret.

The drawer mourned. The Wal-Mart socks held a candlelight vigil using LED toe warmers. But the Cuccinellis were inconsolable.

“This is targeted,” muttered Bianca, a sparkling cashmere sock with a philosophical bent. “The dryer has developed taste.”

She was right. The rogue dryer; once a humble appliance, had become sentient. It had read fashion blogs through its Wi-Fi connection. It had watched Milan runway shows on its smart panel. It had opinions.

And it was hungry.

Only the finest would do. Dior. Cucinelli. Gucci. It devoured them like haute cuisine. The Wal-Mart socks were safe, but deeply offended.

“We may be mass produced,” said Chad, “but we have feelings too. ........ Besides, we know that they will come for us when the Cuccinellis are all gone.”

Bianca, now the last of the Cuccinellis, hatched a plan. She would sacrifice herself; but not before slipping a USB tracker into her hem. As she was consumed, the drawer watched in horror. But the data was sent.