Ziggy finds himself in the path of a looming monolith of corporate anonymity - an impressionistic vending machine, whose empty visage serves only to project Ziggy's fears of corporate America back upon him. Faceless and full of beckoning promises, the device has been designed by indifferent strangers to penetrate the layers of bewildered confusion that serve as Ziggy's aura.
"No salesman will call," the machine promises. This is the least of his worries. He already knows that modern society can and will track you down. The greater question on his mind is this: what exactly is going to come raining through this slot when I give the Machine my fifty cents? Is the chance of experiencing some unspecified "candy" worth the possibility of asphyxiating in the blood of the oppressed working class? Ziggy jingles his two quarters self-consciously in his pocket and prepares to make a choice, a proverbial Pandora before her box.
(Possible additional themes: The machinization of the modern world, The deceptive powers of advertising, Shall we save or damn the world?)
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