You caught me with the fag in my hand and all I could do was to flick it lightly over my shoulder turn around and walk away with my friends as a full bag of groceries fell to the floor. The eggs broke. The eggs broke all over the floor and then it came. That booming sound from the machine that had lost its purpose many years previously and now primarily occupied itself with sounding a meaningless alarm every time the smallest of incidents disrupted its sensitive space, paid for and therefor its rightful field of dominance. The machine did not care about the smoking, but it did not like the cigarette on the floor, it did not care that the eggs would now never be eaten but that new eggs had to be purchased, it did not care for the tears that mommy cried, just that they were cried for me.