Violence, Three Kinds: FOLGERCEST.

A short story.

Jul 15, 2026

The stainless steel Ad Blocker-Blocker Military Android stands at six feet eight inches when it is upright, and I’m sleepless and only five nine. I drop my empty beer can and let it roll across my squalid beige carpet, and it hits the base of my TV stand. The screen plays the hour-long Folgers Coffee Christmas Incest Centennial Anniversary commercial for the third time in a row. The apartment smells like old cat piss, and the android’s red boxing mitts are the only bright color here. The android is between me and the ‘skip ad button’ in the corner of the screen, and I am ready to fight.
“Please, dear,” the android says, stiff and motionless with my grandmother’s synthetic voice to keep me sympathetic, “my hydraulic ligaments are Mike Tyson-graded, consider subscribing to unlock my pacifism features instead?”
“Can’t even afford a vacuum, how ya think I’m gonna afford to pay you?”
“The emergency room costs far more, dear.”
Past the android, the Folgers Christmas Brother smiles: You’ve really grown up, sis.
I’ve been waiting to watch my program for two hours now. I cannot take watching this travesty again. But seeing my soft, fleshy face reflected in the android’s polished metal chest, maybe I can bear it for a few more minutes.
“How about ya give me a seven-day free trial?” Pop my chin up, take a deep breath.
“For a limited time, I can offer seven-percent off the yearly rate,” it tilts its head, “or you can purchase the cheaper bronze plan, and lower my blows by thirty-percent.”
That’s not all that’s grown!
I square up.
The Ad Blocker-Blocker Anti-Consumer Military Android steps to the side and crushes the beer can with its thirty-pound foot. Its right arm flies up, like frames in film have been cut, and signs ‘stop’ with red-gloved palm up.
“Don’t make me harm you, dear, it’s Christmas.”
Can’t sleep while the ads play, and they play nonstop. By morning two of no sleep, I cry into the pillowcase that I can’t afford to wash until I get my next paycheck. Can’t get so drunk you pass out and sleep through the ads anymore, for the same reason your pillow goes unwashed. Can’t afford to buy dignity.
I got a big present for you this year...
But you can fight for it.
I swing, and it bobs right, blink red fist smashes my nose. Taste dirty nickels and swing to miss again when my stomach doubles in pain. Can’t inhale when beer bile mixes with blood and snot and I’m stepping back.
“Sit down and enjoy the legacy of Folgercest while you still have a jaw, dear.”
Dead-eyed shark stare, the cameras set in its face can’t blink, and jesus-fuck my nose hurts. Behind, the button prompts: Skip ad?
Lunge to tackle when oily carpet meets face. Tears sting sleepless eyes and the android above me is as unmovable as a parked truck. Maybe watching the commercial one more time isn’t so bad?
I can’t wait to unwrap it!
Nope.
Standing up I stumble. Dizzy, and all of me is in pain as I inhale apartment-rot through bloody mouth. Skin’s already purple and my nose bends to the left in the android’s reflective chest. Behind, the Folgers Christmas Sister pulls on the gift ribbon set on the Folgers Christmas Brother’s crotch.
I spit and snotblood sprays over the android’s dark lenses, and it can’t hit what it can’t see, except fuck you yes it can—and goddamn why the nose again?
“Sit or pay, dear.”
If after it hits me too hard and they discover my dead body days later, I wonder if they’ll consider this a homicide or suicide. Not like they’d arrest a toaster if I bashed my head in with it, and in this moment, is it really all that different and—
“Fuck! What’d you do that for?”
“Sit, or pay.”
I sit on the floor. I haven’t landed a single blow. This is not a fight, it’s a beating, and I’m beat. I feel errant cat litter on my palm, and the carpet is matted, pummeled down by walking all over it for years. My TV, the frame is dusty, and the screen has dried sneeze shotgunned across it. The only thing in this apartment that isn’t cheap, dirty, and worn? It’s my ‘complimentary’ domestic abuse bot above me. Well, save for its head. With comically large red gloves, it goes to wipe its face, and ‘skip ad’ is wide open.
It must’ve heard me because the moment I crouch forward, it twitches, and there is no way I’m getting my hands up before it swings. I do the only goddamn rational thing any man in my position would do—leap at the skip button headfirst. Skull smashes into the screen and bile is back up in my throat as the android’s right hook drives hard as God up my stomach, and I bounce once off the carpet. Thirty-pound steel foot above my head, ready to crush it like an aluminum beer can, I can just barely make it out through the tears. At least my nose won’t hurt anymore.
“Congratulations on a successful ad skip. Thank you for using the Ad Blocker-Blocker Military Android,” it’s no longer my grandma’s voice, now even-toned and masculine, and its foot retreats from my skull. “Please consider subscribing to a premium account to avoid future altercations, and remember: every ad skip is stealing money from your program’s fine, patriotic patrons.”
And the android is still as furniture, again.
Can’t breathe through my nose, and I’m just now taking a breath through my mouth from the last blow. Folgerscest is gone and on a pain scale from one to ten, I’m on fuck you I think I’ll pass out when my program plays.
What to do when you’ve been served an eviction notice and have nowhere to stay…
And yeah, fuck it, I think I’ll just sleep.