Mr. Huang’s Brand-New Dishwasher

By: submission | June 12, 2026

Author: Aubrey Williams

Mr. Huang, the wrinkled proprietor of Best Dumpling House, always told his employees that life was a scam.

“Everyone pretends.”

He’d said it so many times that people were surprised the words hadn’t engraved themselves on his cracked and stained ceiling.

Mr. Huang was not a bad employer, as he was quite a decent man to work for. Wages were paid in-full and on-time, and all the cooks and waiters could swap their shifts without so much as a grunt; if he had a weakness, it was that Mr. Huang was one cheap son-of-a-gun. He owned perhaps a total of three shirts, all of them washed in the laundry room of the nearby hotel he snuck into when it suited him. He had a single pair of glasses whose lenses he replaced with the bottoms of old cola bottles. Invariably, his niece Mei would trim his pencil moustache for nothing, armed with an old comb and a sharp switchblade, in exchange for a large number five.

Now, you may recall the ’68 Robot Unrest, which led to widespread property damage, maimings, unauthorised shutdowns, and the loss of Mayor Fothergill’s prized cement spaniel. In the chaotic attempt at a cleanup, a rather dumpy robot identified as Gyro/A2-C/b0x (let’s call them “Box”) escaped the authorities, the vent tube-armed, square machine having been implicated in a series of public nuisance offences. Of course, the police officially said they wanted to speak to the machine about a series of brutal murders, but they really just hoped to draw out more machines looking for clemency in exchange for snitching.

Box happened to be dodging some officers one rainy evening, when he happened upon Mr. Huang cursing in two languages about his broken dishwasher, kicking the thing to pieces in the back alley.
Barely thinking, Box wheeled into the long steel oblong that was the kitchen, hooked themselves up to the tap, hose, and drainage system, and began to whirr, as if they were a dishwasher. They’d retracted their arms and head into their boxy torso, and their faded green paint had all the bearings of a discount appliance. Mr. Huang came into the kitchen and saw what appeared to be a new dishwasher.

“A-ha!” He loudly congratulated himself with. “My worthless nephew finally decided he was able to pay me back after all!”

Over the next five weeks, Box spun thousands of litres of soapy water and blew the dishes dry, almost losing a valve. It was a small price to pay for evading the authorities. Box would secretly wheel themselves around the restaurant at night out of paranoid restlessness. What if the restaurant went under? Then they’d be caught when the creditors rifled-through, surely? Box made a concerted effort to fix the air conditioner, re-grease the door hinges, and even exterminate a few rats— anything to keep Best Dumpling House afloat.

One Tuesday evening, two officers came in, asking the staff if they’d seen a robot matching Box’s description. Box leaked, as they couldn’t sweat. Question after question they reeled-off, seeming to know so much about their movement. Box was certain the jig was up.

When Mr. Huang was questioned, he was equally bored and prickly.

“No, who do you think I am? Mechanic? Ask someone else.”

Box nearly wept with relief when the officers left. It would be another few months at least of this drudgery, but at least it was free.

Mr. Huang was secretly more insightful than he let on. Not that he wanted anyone to know— it wasn’t everyday you had a robot working in the restaurant for free.