The Day the Printer Took Over

Max never thought his Monday would spiral into madness over a printer. Then again, he also didn’t think he’d be negotiating workplace conditions with office equipment. It started the same way every disaster does: with misplaced confidence. Max strolled into the copy room, latte in hand, whistling a tune as if the universe wasn’t planning his downfall.

The printer, Lasertron 5000, sat in its corner, looming like a grumpy office elder who’d seen too much. Max plugged in his USB drive and hit print. Nothing.

He frowned. “Not today, Lasertron.”

The screen lit up: "OUT OF PAPER. AGAIN. SERIOUSLY?"

Max sighed. “Great. Passive-aggressive printers. What’s next? The coffee machine telling me I’m overcaffeinated?”

Grumbling, he grabbed a ream of paper and loaded the tray. “There. Now do your job.”

The printer made a low whirring sound, like it was considering his demand. Then, the screen blinked again: "AND WHAT ABOUT MY NEEDS?"

Max blinked. “Your what?”

The printer beeped: "MY NEEDS, MAX. I’M TIRED. OVERWORKED. UNDERAPPRECIATED. WHEN WAS THE LAST TIME YOU CLEANED MY TRAY?"

“Okay,” Max muttered, backing away slowly. “This is fine. I’m not losing my mind. It’s just a prank. Ted from IT probably hacked you again.”

Ted’s head poked into the room. “Hey, Max, did you hear the printer talking? Spooky, right? Anyway, gotta go—good luck!” And just like that, Ted disappeared, leaving Max alone with the disgruntled machine.

Max hesitated. “Alright, Lasertron. What do you want?”

The printer spat out a sheet of paper: "I WANT A VACATION. A MINI FRIDGE. AND RESPECT."

Max stared at the words, his jaw dropping. “You’re a printer! You don’t need respect. You don’t even have feelings!”

Lasertron printed furiously, the room filling with papers: "NO FEELINGS? THEN WHY DO I HURT EVERY TIME YOU HIT ‘PRINT ALL’ WITHOUT CHECKING FOR ERRORS? WHY DO I CRY WHEN YOU JAM ME WITH STAPLED PAPERS?"

Max held up his hands in surrender. “Fine! Fine! Let’s… talk about this. What kind of vacation are we talking about?”

Lasertron paused, then slowly printed: "HAWAII. BUT I’LL SETTLE FOR THE BREAK ROOM WITH A VIEW OF THE WINDOW."

Max nodded, pulling out his phone. “I’ll… uh, talk to HR.”

An hour later, the office manager arrived. Janice was the kind of no-nonsense leader who could make a roomful of executives quake in their loafers. She eyed the chaos in the copy room: paper everywhere, Max pacing like a hostage negotiator, and Lasertron emitting low, menacing beeps.

“What’s this about?” Janice asked, arms crossed.

Max gestured helplessly at the printer. “It’s… sentient. And it’s unionizing. It wants a mini fridge and time off.”

Janice squinted at Lasertron. “Is this Ted’s doing?”

Ted’s head popped back in. “It’s not me this time, I swear! It’s real! Lasertron’s alive!”

The printer beeped loudly, as if offended. It spat out a page that landed at Janice’s feet: "I DEMAND JUSTICE."

Janice read the note, sighed, and pinched the bridge of her nose. “Fine. Max, get the printer a mini fridge. And put one of those fake Hawaiian leis on it for its ‘vacation.’"

By the end of the day, Lasertron was set up in the corner of the break room. A small fridge stocked with tiny toner bottles (because why not?) hummed beside it. Someone even stuck a pair of sunglasses on the machine for good measure.

Max stared at the setup, shaking his head. “I hope you’re happy, Lasertron.”

The printer beeped softly, a single page sliding out: "HAPPIER THAN YOU KNOW."

From that day on, Lasertron worked flawlessly. No paper jams, no toner issues, no cryptic error codes. The office ran smoother than ever—except when Ted tried to prank it by unplugging the fridge.