This is a story I wrote a while ago:

This is a Good Computer: A Short story

“This is a good computer,” says the man behind the counter, pointing to a large metal box covered in buttons.

“It even does calculations,” he tells you.

The man behind the counter presses a button on the box. The box wheezes, and spits out some numbers. The man proceeds to shove the numbers in your face. You nod approvingly, just to be polite. You do not want the computer.

“Look. Watch this,” the man says.

He presses another button. The box wheezes again, but this time, it beeps and spits out a grainy picture of a dog, which the man also shoves in your face. You are beginning  to hate the man and the computer more and more. You look around, but nobody else is in the shop.

“I really must go,” you tell the man.

But the man does not care. He pushes you towards another box and starts rapidly pushing buttons. The box beeps and wheezes and hums and spits out more numbers. You watch this moron exhaust the poor machine as a vendor gives ice cream to children. You want ice cream. You want escape.

Silently, you run as fast as you have ever run in your life, towards the door. And yet, as you reach for the handle, the man’s hand grasps it before you can.

“Not so fast,” the man says.

You tell him something about a family emergency, but the man won’t buy it. He sees right through your lies. As the man gestures you towards another box, you dash towards the door again. This time, you are successful. You turn to face the shop, and there he is, glaring at you, his nose pressed up against the glass. You scream. You get in your car and step on the gas, forgetting about the ice cream. Relaxed, you look in the mirror. He is sitting in the backseat.

“Oh god,” you think.

The car swerves as you try to push him out. Cars honk and crash into each other as you attempt to get rid of this demon of a salesman. Finally, you manage to push him out of the car. You watch as he is run over. The man’s lifeless body tumbles into a ditch. You breathe a sigh of relief and drive home.

Your family asks how shopping went, and you say it went well. You keep living your life. You never speak of what happened, but sometimes, on the side of the road, out of the corner of your eye, you see him. He is standing, his uniform covered in tire marks and bloodstains, smiling at you.