Percy pressed a button, and the press started to descend.
The little person standing on the platform looks worried, Percy thought. Well you should, little man. That press won’t do you any favours.
The person was small, plastic, had a smile painted on. But to Percy’s mind, it was just that – painted on. Not genuine. Just a smile for the sake of smiling, while the press continued to descend, getting closer and closer. The person’s legs were blue, his torso red. He looked blocky. You should have gone to the gym, Percy though. Too late now.
The press reached the person’s head, and started to push. The little man resisted, holding up with all his might. The press kept pressing. The person pushed back, refusing to be quashed by the ever-lasting pressure and intensive squeeze. He fought and fought, but could finally take it no longer.
The little person buckled, gave way, and fell to his knees, then fell backward, finally compressed by the press, squished flat, bits of him pushed out the sides.
Percy nodded, made some notes about the total pressure a person could take, and backed the press off. The little smear of plastic was scraped off the press, and Percy set up the next person, to see if they would withstand any more. He doubted it – the people all gave way, sooner or later. Usually sooner.