The Smiling Man’s Machine

As I surveyed the town from the hill on its western side, I could see that the Smiling Man had already been through, had already constructed his machine in the town center. It was impossible how fast he moved from town to town, how quickly he constructed his machines. I had been chasing him for a few years, and had never even seen him, knowing only what he looked like from the stories people told. An older white man with expensive black clothes, who moved in unnatural spurts of motion, and whose mouth always smiled. “You would know him if you saw him,” the people told me, but I always had the suspicion that if I ever caught up with him, I wouldn’t see what they saw.

The machine was already working on the town, white smoke billowing from the barrel on its top. On one side, a belt ran in circles so quickly it appeared to be standing still. On the other, its open mouth begged for fuel in the form of wood and oil.

I must have been catching up with the Smiling Man, as his machine was new, still pristine, not yet stained with blood. But I had seen this enough times to know what had happened, what would happen.

The townsfolk wouldn’t even remember the words that the Smiling Man had said to them, but they knew they had agreed to the machine. It was their machine now. They loved the machine. They would die for it.

When the machine ate its first townsperson, the others would react with horror, disgust, and fear. “How could this happen?” they would ask, as the open mouth of the machine bellowed blood.

There would be a short debate. The most thoughtful of them would ask if it was wise to keep the machine running, if it was worth it to trade the lives of their neighbors for the comfort of the machine. And they would be mocked, and they would be censured, and they would be shut down. The machine would run, the belt on its side spinning, the barrel smoking, its mouth gaping for more.

After the machine ate a few more people, there would be no debate. They would know that they’d made their choice. It was too late to shut the machine down now. A few people every now and then was just the price they paid for the service of the machine.

And the machine would grow hungry, and it would eat more. Men, women, children. Until the silver of the metal ran red every day. Until the population of the town dwindled to nothing, and the last of the townsfolk offered themselves to its flaming maw. And the machine would run, and the town would sit, empty and dead.

I checked my pocket watch, and tucked my dagger into my coat as I waited for night to fall. If the townspeople caught me in the act of dismantling the Smiling Man’s machine, they would attack me, and if I were cornered, I would need to use the dagger to escape. But I won’t let the machine eat this town. And when I have dismantled his machines, one by one, I will follow the Smiling Man until I’ve caught him, and plunge the dagger into his chest.