It was a beast of a machine. A dot matrix printer that looked less like office equipment and more like a siege engine. It was beige, boxy, and weighed enough to anchor a small boat. In its heyday, it had churned out invoices and multipart forms with a rhythmic, chattering violence that defined the soundtrack of the late 90s. Now, it sat silent, its carriage locked to the side, a monument to obsolescence.
KER-CHUNK.