Kyocera Jam 9000 -

Leo backed away, hands up. "Dr. Aris," he said into his radio, his voice steady but hollow. "We're going to need a bigger hammer. Or a priest."

The technician, a wiry man named Leo who smelled of ozone and burnt coffee, called it "The Beast." Not with affection, but the way a zookeeper might name a man-eating lion. The official model was the Kyocera Jam 9000, and for three weeks, it had been the sole occupant of a reinforced cage in the sub-basement of the Federal Document Depository. kyocera jam 9000

By week two, Leo had stopped sleeping. He'd replaced the rollers, the sensors, the entire main logic board. Nothing worked. The Jam 9000 seemed to anticipate his repairs. When he adjusted the registration clutch, it began jamming before he even sent a job, just to spite him. Leo backed away, hands up

Last night, Leo brought in a single sheet of rice paper. He stood before the Beast, which hummed with a malevolent, low-frequency patience. He slid the rice paper into the manual feed tray. "We're going to need a bigger hammer