He looked at the piece of metal sticking out of his arms, a shiny chrome Tube stealing his Blood and warmth. He was getting sick of this. A moment of pain supernovaed in his arm. He winced, but didn't say anything to the blood attendant. A big Jamaican woman with blood on her dreadlocks. How did it get there? He stopped caring the instant he thought about it. Maybe she isn't Jamaican, maybe she just has dreadlocks - he thinks sensitively. The hole in his arm tingled. Every fucking three months he cursed. I don't even go fucking every three months.

They are bleeding me dry - he laughed at his pun and looked strange to everyone in the room who wasn't a mind reader. Nobody was. Mind readers don't exist. Or do they. They don't, don't be silly.

Goddamn taxes. Next week he has to give his sweat. They'll put him in a personal sauna up to his neck. Then he'll sweat like a pig dancing under a shotgun threat. Worst of all, the pig doesn't understand the technical dancer jargon shotgun wielding maniac demands of him. He just hoped he won't be next to some chatterbox. It's not easy to put your fingers in your ears when they're enclosed within a 2 inch thick heating machine. Just not that old geezer from last time. I don't care about your wife or anniversary of her death. Or her dumb diseases. I don't care about your relationship with your daughter or that she's marrying that annoying, stoner kid across the street. “No humming” sign stood on the wall. Stupid rule. He hums every time and gets hit on the head. Same hand points at the sign. Machine hums as it works. He's jealous of the machine. That doesn't make him feel stupid. Buy the biggest headphones in the market - he noted in his head. He noted the same thing before last sweating. His mind notebook isn't that good. As demonstrated.

But worse of all are the tears. Attendants put a plastic satellite around his neck like he's some kind of dog who needs to stop scratching. Que sad music and some family tragedy. An old man talks about his late wife and their anniversaries. She died of cancer after battling with Alzheimer's. But somehow she always knew their dates and anniversaries. Old man's daughter has a tough time and tries to find happiness in the arms of some man across the street who used to deal drugs. Oh my god, our hero wailes like a two year old whose mommy flipped him a bird while substituting him for a kid he hates. Powerful stuff.

Every four months he goes fucking, and cums in a tube. Frustration disappears and then he's happy to give all his blood, sweat and tears to the state which enables him to cum in a tube after poking at it with official sex attendant. He just hopes she won't be fat next time.

Luka Butish is a 28 year old psychologist, currently unemployed. That's why he has time to write stupid short stories. He lives in Croatia (that's not in Asia, or a meal...it's in Europe next to Italy). He is currently unmarried but plans to be before he's 55.