Beware the Wrath of Me

The suave assassin sauntered slickly to the vending machine. "HappyVendingMachine(TM)" was emblazoned across the top. 75 cents, it announced, for your very own Strawberry-Kiwi-Lemon-Mango-Pineapple-Pina Colada-Tomato-Apple-Carrot-Pomegranate-Banana-Kitchen sink-Battery acid-Orange (made you look) fruit drink!.

His Royal Rattiness deposited his three quarters and confidently pushed the button, waiting for the expected "ka-thunk! Thank you for letting me accommodate your beverage needs! Have a nice day!", which was the calling card of the HappyVendingMachines(TM).

But alas, this wasn't a happy HappyVendingMachine(TM)! This was a mechanically depressed HappyVendingMachine(TM). He was tired of spending his life "accommodating your beverage needs!". He wanted to be a typewriter. Typewriters were respected.

When the not-so-HappyVendingMachine saw our esteemed RatBastard coming, he decided he *wasn't* going to "accommodate his beverage needs!". And maybe the smarmy hitman would put him out of his mechanically depressed misery.

The Russian rascal stopped, confused, and pushed the button again. And again. The self-confident pretty-boy expression on his face suddenly broke into a scowl. He kicked the over-pompous excuse for a refrigerator.

The vending machine shuddered happily at the pain. The hitman for hire, in all his Krycekian glory, stared perplexedly at the appliance. He kicked it again. Harder. He stooped down to the small opening, and reached his right arm up into the machine, trying to frustratedly finagle his frickin' fruity refreshment out. But he couldn't reach high enough.

In growing agitation, our confident conspirator tossed off his black leather jacket. He- (We must pause now for a descriptive interlude. Ahem. "Every detail of his flawless Olympian figure was visible through the tight white t-shirt he wore. The sheer perfection of his firm, sinewy muscle stretched out over a well-built frame only helped to empathize his gorgeous, tousled black hair falling over his soft, amber babyface and into his icy jade eyes. The-" That's enough. Sorry. Had to get that out of my system. Down, girl! And now back to your previously scheduled fic...)

He reached up and undid the leather straps that attached his prosthetic arm to his living, beautiful, sinewy, almond (Stop it!) flesh. He held the artificial appendage in his living limb, and shoved it up the beverage slot in the morose machine. The vending machine shuddered again, half in pain, half in... pleasure? No! The depressed appliance thought, He's supposed to put me out of my misery, not- Oh! Wow!

The Dogmatic Deceiver was shoving the fake arm up the opening harder and harder, trying to shake something loose, because goddamnit, he wanted his beverage! The not-so-HappyVendingMachine(TM) was now rocking back and forth because of the force of the...arm. Sweat was beading up on the brow of the... the... Oh, crap! I can't think up any snarky little nicknames for Krycek. Fine. Sweat was beading up on *Krycek's* face as he continued... ah, trying to deliver his duly deserved drink.

The rocking became more and more frenzied, as Krycek, never one not to get what he wanted, continued stubbornly. The vending machine, momentarily forgetting his depression and giving into his reluctant elation, suddenly careened over onto top of Krycek in a spasm of joy. Yes, my friends, he was now truly a HappyVendingMachine(TM). Unfortunately, he was also 1500 pounds. The drop-dead-gorgeous look of fear and surprise barley had time to register on Krycek's face before the appliance crashed on top of him, killing them both.