"This song rocks!" Phil said and cranked the volume up on the car stereo. He sang along and thrummed his fingers on the steering wheel to keep the beat. "We will! We will... rock you!"

A gust of wind sent the A-frame sign swinging outside the convenience store.

He glanced over, "14 million! Holy cannoli!" His excitement faded at the hard fact of a solitary ten dollar bill in his wallet that he had to stretch over the five days until he got paid on Tuesday.

He did a quick mental survey of his cupboards. Being a bachelor who didn't cook very well, it was easily to visualise the stack of tins, peanut butter jar and dried pasta packets. The fridge had a few eggs, half a jug of milk and half a loaf of bread. The freezer had one frozen pizza. The rest of the space was stuffed with hot dogs from work.

Enough to get by, but it meant he didn't go out for a brew with the guys on Saturday.

"Screw it!" he exclaimed, cranking the wheel into the parking lot. "If I win, I'll be able to buy a steak!"

Five minutes later he tucked the 'Early Bird' lottery ticket into his phone case and slipped it into his back pocket. That way he wouldn't have to wait until his shift ended at five to check the results. Who could wait to see if they were lucky and won the whole freakin' 14 million dollars?!

His boss went mental on anyone he caught with their phones on the floor, but it'd only need a quick peek. He might even be able to get a bathroom break at that time to check the results and avoid the possibility of his boss' wrath if he got caught.

He turned on the car and felt Tom Petty's 'Free Falling' was a good sign of the times to come.

"Oh, yeah." He patted his pocket and sang off-key all the way to work.

"Lady Luck is still smiling at me!" Phil crooned to himself as he went for his shift at the grinder at 3:00pm. He did a little two-step number when he arrived at the big steel beast.

Moments later the first batch of meat was dumped in. Picking up the giant rake left by the previous employee, he pulled the meat out of the chute, ensuring it went down into the funnel.

Mark, the loader driver, waved and backed up, off to get the next batch of meat trimmings. Mark had just gotten his loader licence last week, so his newness made him overcautious and, most importantly, slow.

The big shift clock on the wall said 3:07.

Quick as he could, Phil got the last bits of meat dragged out and on its way down to the metal teeth.

Now was his opportunity to check.

He glanced around to make sure the foreman wasn't nearby, or any of the snitches, then slipped the phone out. He peeled back the beige rubber cover and pulled out his ticket.

The row of numbers gleamed up at him from the pale pink slip. He'd decided to let the machine choose random numbers for him since he wasn't particularly fond of his own birthday or any other number.

He gave another glance around before turning the phone on. He quickly went to the Lotto announcement page and compared the row of numbers on his ticket and the screen.

34...match! 20...match! 49...match! 8...match! 12...match!

He goggled at the ticket.

Five numbers.

He checked again, carefully going back and forth.

He looked up to make sure rainbows hadn't started shining across the top of the factory because he was dreaming.

One sure way to check that. He gave himself a hard pinch. "Ouch! Holy cannoli." He caught himself just before he shouted out loud and whispered to himself instead, "I won!"

He started jumping around on the spot, waving the ticket frantically and punching the air in front of him excitedly. This was enough money to buy a new - well, used, but new to him - car! He could finally get rid of his old clunker!

"Phil!" Mark called.

"Nah!" Phil shouted. He jumped, startled, and turned to the sound that had intruded on his celebration. Unfortunately, when he jumped, his hands had snapped open guiltily.

The ticket flew forward a few inches, then fluttered down towards the floor. But his phone thumped off the corner of the opening where he leaned to rake the meat and onto the batch of meat trimmings Mark had just dumped.

The beige of his phone case was almost indiscernible on the shredded pork.

"Crap!" he cried and lunged forward.

Too late.

The tangle of meat his phone landed on got soundlessly pulled down into the grinder. Along with his phone.

Phil leaned his hands on the sides of the opening, needing the support to hold him up.

"Yo, Phil! What's up?" Mark called.

Phil was immobile in shock. From down in the funnel, a ferocious, but thankfully low, grinding sound came up.

From the safety video they'd had to watch in training, he knew the gears that ground the meat would render his phone into tiny bitty fragments. So tiny that the people who would eat them shouldn't notice anything at all. Maybe a little stomachache.

This batch of meat would be eventually be combined with other ground and made into well over a hundred thousand hot dogs.

That was a lot of meat. A lot of meat that would be scrapped if he called a halt because he was an idiot who couldn't wait two hours to check his phone.

Mark leaned forward in the loader cab. "Phil? Did you see a rat go down or something? Should I call the foreman?"

It had happened once before. Cost the factory a mint in lost product.

This would cost him his job.

Phil jerked back up and waved his hands frantically. "No! I just realized today is my anniversary and I forgot to get my girlfriend something!"

Phil had no idea where the lie came from. He'd never had a girlfriend.

Mark rocked back with a wide grin and a laugh. "Oh, man! You're in for it. I did that once, and my old lady didn't let me forget for months. I recommend you stop by the mall and hit that lingerie store. They sell chocolates too. Get two boxes. Chicks love that stuff."

Phil wiped sweat from his brow and reached to pick up the rake. The pale pink ticket balanced on his shoe buoyed his spirits. He quickly snatched it up and stuffed it in his pocket. He could get a better phone than had just been chewed and still get a half decent car.

"Yeah, man, thanks for the advice." He began raking forward the meat in the chute.

One thing for sure, he wouldn't be taking home any hot dogs from that shift - or the next day or two for good measure - to make sure he didn't bring home any of his phone. Today's whole batch would be shipped out by tomorrow night, so he'd be clear after the weekend.

Two hours later, he stripped off his apron and chucked it in the laundry bin. He was oblivious to the hubbub around him until Mark collared him around the neck with a slightly sweaty arm.

"You've gotta come and celebrate Lenny's birthday. They brought in a triple chocolate fudge cake!"

Phil's mouth instantly watered. The best thing of working in this hole was the birthday celebrations. They always got amazing cakes.

They also always served hot dogs they'd made themselves that shift as a big ol' dinner party.

The saliva in his mouth turned to cottonballs.

Mark looked at his face. "Don't worry, man. You'll still be able to hit the mall. It doesn't close until nine. Just tell your lady there was traffic or something. Always works for me."

Mark dragged an unwilling Phil to the staff room and pushed him into a chair.

The smell of cooking hot dogs wafted out from the three microwaves. The table had a pile of paper plates, forks and a wild assortment of condiments ringing a giant, mouthwatering chocolate cake.

Sweat popped out on Phil's brow. How was he going to get out of this?

Plates of steaming dogs were laid out and everyone grabbed a fork and dug in.

Phil did something he never thought he would. He put his ballcap in his lap and broke off bits of food to drop inside. No one suspected he wasn't eating because he kept swallowing nervously as he watched his coworkers eat his phone.

Carefully gathering the hat in one hand he got up and held it down at his side. "I'm just going to the john. Don't eat all the cake before I get back!" He forced a big laugh and with his free hand pointed around at his co-workers with mock threat.

In the toilet, he wrapped the hot dogs in paper towels and threw them in the bin before rejoining the party for cake. Even the happy crinkle from his lotto ticket couldn't reduce the worry one of his coworkers would pull a tiny bit of his phone from between their teeth.

That night, Phil lay staring at the ceiling. Every time he closed his eyes he'd have nightmares of his boss discovering what he'd done and firing him. Or of his coworkers wrapping their mobile phones in a bun and making him eat them all.

When his alarm finally went of at 6:30am, Phil sat up in bed and held his head. He'd barely slept. "I got a hangover but I didn't get to have the drinking-part fun. I gotta call in sick."

Reaching for his phone, he remembered that it no longer existed. "Crap!"

He rooted around on the floor, under the sofa cushions, even under the dresser to find a lone quarter to use the payphone on the corner, but couldn't find more than a penny.

The boss came over and was about to clap him on the shoulder but stopped short. "Are you feeling alright, Phil?"

Phil shook his head. "No, sir."

The foreman frowned slightly and looked out to the factory floor. After a long moment of thought he looked back at Phil. "Can you stay just for an hour until I can get some replacements in? Must be some bug going around because half your shift called in sick."

Real nausea rolled Phil's stomach over. "S-s-s-sure," he stammered.

The boss nodded sharply. "I commend your dedication to work. Coming in when you don't feel well. I'll note it in your file."

Phil smiled weakly, the gesture he would have leaped for yesterday meant nothing today. "Thanks."

Finally the 11pm news broke the story he had sweat through every broadcast waiting for.

The staid newscaster glanced at the papers before her and gave the screen a serious look. "Police are warning citizens to be on the lookout for a dangerous group who are attacking victims for their cell phones. The reason phones are being targeted is unclear. Any tips leading to the apprehension of the persons involved will be rewarded."

A clip from a CCTV camera showed a group of people attacking some teenagers. Once the kids were on the ground they patted them down and took their phones.

Phil's breath hitched when he recognized the loader driver Mark. "Oh, my God. That can't be him! This can't be linked... can it?"

Phil reached for his phone - again - and slapped his forehead. He rubbed the spot. Guilt gnawed at him. "I have to go check on Mark."

The dark streets were deserted with only a few bats swooping by for company.

Pulling up to the curb, he saw lights illuminating Mark's backyard from the kitchen at the back of his friend's house.

Creeping around the side, he crept up the back steps and peered in through the screen door.

Several of his coworkers and the teenagers from the CCTV were standing in a loose bunch facing Mark who removed a phone from his smoking microwave and passed it back. A teenager took a bite then handed it to the next person.

"What?" Phil whispered and stepped forward. A porch board creaked.

As one the phone-biters turned.

He gasped at their slack faces, but recoiled at their eyes which had turned a strange shade of dark grey. They took a step towards him.

"No..." he raised his hands defensively.

Hands grabbed him from behind. "Phone," a voice mumbled in his ear.

He slapped at the hands but, they squeezed him and began pulling him to the ground.

"No!" he cried and struggled. They fell to the ground. The person holding him grabbed at his flailing arm, leaving a long deep scratch.

"Phone," the person mumbled again, finally shoving a hand into Phil's pocket.

Mark loomed over him. Phil flinched when Mark thrust his hand down to check Phil's other pockets. Finding them empty, Mark shook his head and the person holding him let go.

They ambled away, back towards Mark's house.

The people in the kitchen came out and filed down the stairs.

As they rounded the corner, Phil's arm twitched. He began patting down his pockets. Empty.

He was hungry. He had to find a phone.

He climbed to his feet and followed the others.