She didn’t want trouble. She just wanted her strawberry milkshake.
Not the one with real ingredients either, the one that would’ve cost her two weeks pay. That was reckless. She was settling for the cheap stuff instead.
Like always.
The machine finally finished dispensing: a colorless, odorless, thick paste that sure as hell wasn’t strawberry. One sip of this synthetic slop was all the proof she needed. Chocolate.
The mild-mannered technician fumed. The final straw. She grabbed the machine with grease-stained hands and pushed it to the floor. It wasn’t much, but it was enough.
The fuse had been lit.
The Weekday One Hundred 