A Theology of Grinding

The machine’s official designation was the ‘GrindMaster 9000’, but in that moment, it was channelling something far older and less concerned with a quality crema. A low, guttural hum vibrated through the lino floor, rattling the sad-looking pot plant Hygenia had been trying to nurse back to health for six months. She was standing beside me, clutching a spreadsheet printout like a holy ward.

"It's demanding a tribute," she whispered, her voice tight with panic. "It wants the petty cash tin and all of last year's expense reports. It called them... the parchment of broken promises."

"Did you try turning it off and on again?" I asked, my own voice betraying a calm I absolutely did not feel. My contribution to the crisis so far had been to unplug the kettle, just in case this thing was contagious.

"It’s hardwired into the mains, Jorge! And the user manual is in a language that looks like sizzling bacon," Hygenia hissed, pointing a trembling finger at the small LCD screen. It was cycling through symbols that made my teeth ache.

A mechanical arm, designed for tamping espresso grounds, extended from the machine’s side with a pneumatic sigh. It pointed directly at Hygenia. A synthesized voice, like a Speak & Spell being put through a woodchipper, echoed in the small room. "THE NUMERATOR OF DEBTS. HER CALCULATIONS ARE AN AFFRONT TO THE CELESTIAL ABACUS."

"Right, that's it," I said, straightening my tie. It felt like the only piece of ordinary I had left. "It’s a negotiation. Just like the stationary budget review, but with slightly higher stakes."

"Higher stakes? It wants to reformat my soul into a pivot table!" Hygenia squeaked.

"Hygenia, breathe. It's a disgruntled service provider. I'll handle it." I stepped forward, holding my hands up in a placating gesture I’d seen on police dramas. "Greetings, GrindMaster 9000. Jorge from Analytics here. It seems we've had a minor workplace incident. Could we perhaps schedule a synergy meeting to de-escalate and identify key actionables moving forward?"

The machine whirred. The galactic projection on the ceiling shifted, zooming in on a particularly volatile-looking nebula. "YOUR WORDS ARE ROUNDED DECIMALS IN THE EQUATION OF ETERNITY. MEANINGLESS. BRING ME THE KEEPER OF RULES."

As if summoned, the breakroom door swung open. Morag from Human Resources stood there, holding a tablet and wearing an expression of profound disappointment. She surveyed the scene – the trembling accountant, the babbling analyst, the reality-warping appliance – and sighed the sigh of a woman who’d seen it all before.

Key Performance Indicators of the Damned

"Let me get this straight," Morag said, tapping her stylus against her chin. She hadn't flinched. Not when the GrindMaster called her 'The Arbiter of Mortal Frailties,' nor when it demonstrated its power by turning all the milk in the fridge into lukewarm cottage cheese. "It's an extra-dimensional entity, bound against its will into a commercial-grade coffee machine during a fluke alignment of cosmic import channels?"

"That's the gist of it, yes," I confirmed. "It's also very unhappy with our Q2 revenue projections."

"IRRELEVANT," the GrindMaster boomed, its tamping arm flexing menacingly. "THE LEDGERS MUST BE BALANCED. A SACRIFICE OF DATA IS REQUIRED."

Morag squinted at the machine. "And this sacrifice would be... what, exactly? Because if it involves unpaid overtime, I need to file a G-76 form with corporate."

"It wants the accounts server," Hygenia whimpered from behind a stack of digestive biscuits she’d fashioned into a makeshift barricade.

"The *entire* server?" Morag’s eyebrow arched. "The one with all our payroll information and the details of the company pension scheme? I don't think so. That’s a GDPR nightmare waiting to happen."

She turned her full attention to the chrome deity. "Listen here. I am Morag MacLeod, Senior HR Partner for this division. Under section 4B of the Employee Handbook, all workplace disputes, including those of a metaphysical or pan-dimensional nature, must be resolved through official channels. Have you filled out a grievance form?"

There was a pause. The humming ceased. The star charts flickered. "A... FORM?"

"Form HR-22A, 'Interdepartmental and/or Esoteric Conflict Resolution'," Morag said, her voice crisp. "You can find it on the company intranet. Fill it out in triplicate, outlining the nature of your complaint, the desired outcome, and at least two proposed solutions. I'll review it and get back to you within five to seven working days."

The GrindMaster 9000 seemed to shrink in on itself. Its lights dimmed. "FIVE... TO SEVEN... DAYS?"

"Standard procedure," Morag said with a shrug. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a disciplinary hearing at ten. Something about stapler misuse. Jorge, my office. We need to draft an addendum to the equipment usage policy."

She turned and walked out, leaving Hygenia and me alone with the suddenly very quiet coffee machine. The tamping arm slowly retracted. On its little screen, a single, blinking cursor appeared. The machine that had threatened to unmake reality was, it seemed, contemplating the existential horror of corporate bureaucracy.