Sarah was late. Again. She could already feel the impending doom of her boss's stare. The only thing standing between her and the day from hell was a nice cup of coffee. Just one cup. She approached the coffee machine, hoping for a peaceful transaction. She clicked the button.
The coffee machine, however, had other plans.
It made a low, ominous growl, like it was about to birth a caffeinated nightmare. Then, without warning, it shot a high-pressure stream of coffee directly into Sarah's face.
"WHAT THE ACTUAL—" she shrieked, jumping back as hot coffee splashed everywhere. Her shirt was instantly ruined, the coffee was everywhere, and her spirit was now broken.
Dave, her "I'm totally a genius" coworker, strolled in like he had just discovered gravity. "Whoa. Did you see that?" he asked, pointing at the coffee machine like it was the most impressive thing he'd ever seen. "It's like a shower! A very aggressive shower."
"It's called a coffee explosion, Dave," Sarah muttered. She wiped coffee off her cheek, wondering if it was too early to start drinking wine.
"No, no. It's an opportunity," Dave said, his eyes gleaming with something between delusion and pure excitement. "You know, I once fixed a toaster with duct tape, and it worked perfectly after that."
"Last time, it worked... once. When you held it together with one hand," Sarah reminded him, still dripping coffee.
"Exactly! And now, we fix this machine," Dave said, puffing out his chest. "Let's break it down, scientifically!"
---
Twenty minutes later, Sarah was holding a screwdriver, staring at the completely dismantled coffee machine in front of her like it was a high-tech bomb with a timer she didn't understand. Dave was elbow-deep in wires, while loudly proclaiming how he was "reverse engineering the entire coffee process."
Sarah glanced at the broken mess in front of her, feeling a pang of anxiety. "Dave... if this was anything else, we'd be calling IT right now."
"Nah," Dave grinned. "They'd just make it worse. And we don't need them. We need... bravery."
She stared at him, horrified. "I think you mean 'disaster.'"
---
The moment of truth arrived. Dave, the self-appointed coffee machine savior, pushed a random button. The machine rumbled as though it was preparing for battle.
Then, it started to make an awful gurgling sound.
"Is that... normal?" Sarah asked, backing away slowly.
"Absolutely. It's a 'self-healing' process," Dave said, nodding as though he had any idea what that meant.
And then, the coffee machine let out an insane burst of steam, covering Dave in a cloud that smelled like burnt cardboard and regret.
The machine then made a noise that could only be described as "frantic toaster on caffeine," before spraying not coffee, but what appeared to be a coffee milkshake everywhere.
The entire break room was hit: the walls, the ceiling, and for some ungodly reason, Dave's shoes, now swimming in a pool of foam. He looked down at them, perplexed. "Hey... I think it's broken."
"You think?" Sarah shot back, now covered head to toe in a brown mess that definitely wasn't in the coffee bean's original plan.
Dave didn't hear her, though. He was too busy staring at the coffee machine as it sputtered like it was on its last breath. He dramatically clutched his chest and whispered, "It's... it's beautiful."
"No, Dave. This is beautiful," Sarah said, pointing to her ruined clothes, her damp hair, and the weird spasm the coffee machine was having.
"Uh, Sarah," Dave said, pointing at the coffee machine. "It... it's doing something." He squinted. "Is that... an espresso rainbow?"
"Oh, for the love of... Dave, don't touch it." But it was too late. The coffee machine exploded like a soda can dropped in a volcano, showering the entire room with liquid brown terror.
"Is it... over?" Sarah asked, wiping her face with a napkin and eyeing the wreckage with a mixture of disbelief and despair.
Dave was looking at the broken coffee machine like it was a fallen hero. "Yep," he sighed. "We fixed it."
Sarah rubbed her eyes, trying not to laugh. "I'm just going to pretend I didn't see any of this."
"Well," Dave said, "at least you're not going to need coffee for the rest of the day."
"Yeah," Sarah muttered, "I think I'm going to need therapy instead."
Moral of the story? When a coffee machine starts making sounds that belong in a horror movie, run—and leave Dave behind.