Machine of Death

"This is my first concert," she replied, mustering her confidence. "But I've been a huge fan since Death by Rock and Roll." She made sure to name-check Stephen's first album, if only to prove her devotion.

Kris Straub and David Malki play a round of Machine of Death: The Game of Creative Assassination.

Kris Straub interviews Ryan North and David Malki ! at the Super-Stupendous Machine of Death Magic + Variety Show, November 2011.

It was like that movie, back in the day, where the machine asks the kid, "How about a nice game of chess?" / "No," he types back. "Let's play Global Thermonuclear War." / That's what the slip of paper in my hand read. "Global Thermonuclear War."

He had not read his slip of paper. It was folded in an envelope in his left pocket. In his right pocket were several books of matches, and he was wearing a backpack. He pushed his way through the scrubby pine trees on the west border of the barrens. "This isn't how it works, you know. The machine is playing word games. You can't just say what's going to happen ahead of time. That's not how physical law works."

I saw the first ads in March. A week or two later it was all over the news, and then for the next few months you could not get away from it. Still, none of us expected it to have the impact it did. It was a killer. By November I had only had eight or nine dreams when I used to have three or four a week. This is how I make my living.

She was somewhere north of forty. Her dark hair showed silver strands, and the beginnings of crow's feet bracketed chestnut-colored eyes. Tommy noticed her fingertips, purple and tender. She was a Repeater.

Timothy got up. "One hundred and one here; just like the Dalmatians. I'm going to die in a fire while trying to save another." / Isma spoke slowly; she was visibly trembling. "I'm going to die in one hundred and one days as well. In a fire."

The machine printed out the certificates on special paper, the same pinkish color as those new five-dollar bills. He put them face-down on a tray and handed them to us. Maggie and I sat down on the examination table, butcher paper crinkling and creasing under us, bunching between us as Maggie scooted closer. The doctor left us alone.

"It's an older model, but that's all that ever made it to Fukuoka before these things were outlawed altogether. It was functioning, as of a week ago. This was the machine that correctly predicted the death of Watanabe Yoshiro."