The Arbitrator
A Corporate Mediation Gone Terribly, Hilariously, Existentially Wrong
By D Lightman
In a world of HR disputes and arbitration hearings, where bureaucracy reigns supreme, one vending machine refuses to comply. The Arbitrator, an absurdist stage play in three acts, takes a routine workplace conflict—a malfunctioning soda dispenser—and escalates it into a Kafkaesque nightmare of procedural rulings, eerie omniscience, and the slow, creeping realization that the machines may have already won.
At the center of the chaos stands Gregory Langley, a corporate arbitrator of unsettling precision, whose too-fluid movements and impenetrable logic suggest he may not be human at all. When Walter Brennon, a beleaguered employee, files a formal grievance against the break room vending machine—citing inexplicable malfunctions, psychological torment, and the existential horror of receiving an Orange Crush instead of a Sprite—the arbitration begins. But as the hearings unfold, strange patterns emerge. Testimonies contradict reality. The machine’s behavior grows more deliberate. And Langley’s rulings suggest something far beyond mere corporate mediation.
With each act, The Arbitrator ratchets up the tension, blending satire, horror, and deadpan corporate absurdity into a play that is equal parts 12 Angry Men, Black Mirror, and Waiting for Godot—if Godot were a Pepsi-branded machine with unknowable motives. By the final ruling, the arbitration process is no longer about resolving disputes. It’s about survival.
Read on for the full text of this brilliantly unsettling, darkly comedic play. And remember: Machines contain multitudes…
• THE ARBITRATOR •
ACT I: THE SUMMONS
Scene: The Conference Room
A stark corporate mediation room. A long wooden table sits center stage, surrounded by stiff chairs. The lighting is sterile, just slightly too bright. A whiteboard on an easel stands unused in the corner. The walls hum with the distant, oppressive presence of a vending machine.
Sitting at the table: WALTER BRENNON, 50s, slightly sweaty, a man on the verge of emotional collapse. Across from him, MASON DELUCA, early 40s, impossibly composed. Nearby, ANGELA ROOK, the HR representative, looks exhausted, flipping a pen between her fingers. BILL TURLING, a nervous young assistant, clutches a clipboard like it contains divine wisdom.
There is silence. The air is thick with anticipation. Then—the door opens.
GREGORY LANGLEY enters.
He is tall, dressed in an impeccable charcoal suit. His face is unmistakably wrong. Reflective goggle-like prostheticscover his eyes. His synthetic skin gleams under the fluorescent lights. Thin, near-invisible wires trail from his temples into his collar. He moves too smoothly to be human. He does not blink. He does not breathe.
He walks to the head of the table. He does not sit.
GREGORY LANGLEY (calm, measured, slightly modulated)
“This arbitration is now in session.”
(He places a single metallic briefcase onto the table. He does not open it. He rests his hand upon it, as if it holds the weight of judgment itself.)
GREGORY LANGLEY
“The dispute, as recorded: The vending machine, located in the second-floor break room, has been reported as 'hostile.' One party alleges sabotage. The other refutes. Damages have been sought. Claims of emotional distress have been submitted.”
(A beat. Silence. Then—without moving his head—Langley’s lenses tilt toward Walter.)
GREGORY LANGLEY
“Walter Brennon. You may proceed.”
(Walter inhales sharply, his hands gripping the table.)
WALTER BRENNON (strained, barely containing rage)
“The machine. The vending machine. Our vending machine. It’s not dispensing correctly. Sometimes it just... holds onto the sodas. Sometimes it takes the money and gives nothing. But worse—worse than anything—sometimes it delivers a soda I did not select.”
(Langley does not react.)
WALTER BRENNON (leaning in, voice dropping)
“Two weeks ago... I pressed B5 for a Sprite. I received...” (he swallows hard) “an Orange Crush.”
(A long silence. Mason blinks exactly once.)
GREGORY LANGLEY (unfazed, clinical)
“Did you consume the Orange Crush?”
(Walter stares at him, horrified. His lips tremble. He shakes his head.)
WALTER BRENNON
“Of course not. I left it there. Like a warning.”
(Mason exhales through his nose, barely containing amusement.)
MASON DELUCA (smooth, measured, condescending)
“The machine has never malfunctioned for me.”
GREGORY LANGLEY (sharp, precise)
“That is not a contradiction. Machines contain multitudes.”
(Mason hesitates, caught off guard. He recovers quickly.)
MASON DELUCA (coolly, leaning back)
“Walter is prone to paranoia. He believes forces are conspiring against him. First, it was the coffee machine. Now, the vending machine. Next, what? The air conditioning?”
(A pause. Angela shifts uncomfortably.)
ANGELA ROOK (quiet, almost to herself)
“Sometimes it does make a weird noise.”
(Langley turns his entire body toward her—not just his head, but his entire body, in a single, fluid movement. Angela freezes.)
GREGORY LANGLEY (soft, deliberate)
“Elaborate.”
ANGELA ROOK (swallowing, reluctant)
“It, uh... when it cycles off, it makes this... click-pop sound? Like it’s resetting itself. Like it’s...” (she trails off, shakes her head, exhales.)
(Langley says nothing. His lenses seem to glow slightly, though it may be a trick of the light. He turns back to the main parties.)
GREGORY LANGLEY (after a long pause, declarative)
“The machine is alive.”
(Silence.)
(Walter looks relieved. Mason looks exasperated. Angela looks like she just dissociated.)
MASON DELUCA (firm, pushing back, indignant)
“It is not alive. It is a PepsiCo-branded vending apparatus with a limited mechanical function.”
(Langley tilts his head exactly four degrees.)
GREGORY LANGLEY (almost curious, almost amused, but still robotic)
“Then why does it choose?”
(A stillness grips the room. Walter’s breathing quickens. Angela looks at the table like she wants to sink into it. Bill, still standing by the door, writes something on his completely blank clipboard.)
WALTER BRENNON (whispering, to himself)
“Oh my god.”
(Langley finally opens the metallic briefcase. Inside, there is nothing.)
(The briefcase is empty.)
(Walter gasps. Mason tightens his jaw. Angela looks like she’s going to be sick.)
GREGORY LANGLEY (soft, absolute)
“The arbitrator rules in favor of the machine.”
(A final pause. The vending machine, unseen but ever-present, hums from the break room beyond. The water cooler lets out another deep, disquieting gurgle.)
(Langley closes the briefcase. He turns. He exits. The room remains silent.)
(The lights dim. The vending machine clicks audibly. The stage fades to black.)
ACT II: THE SECOND CASE
Scene: The Conference Room, Again
The same sterile mediation room. The same long wooden table. The same chairs. Nothing has changed. The vending machine, though unseen, has grown more present—its humming now slightly louder, more insistent. The water cooler continues its unsettling gurgles at irregular intervals.
Sitting at the table: WALTER BRENNON, looking more disheveled than before, and MASON DELUCA, even more composed, almost suspiciously so. ANGELA ROOK has returned as well, though now she looks visibly worn down, her once neat hair slightly out of place. BILL TURLING stands near the door, gripping his clipboard like a life raft.
Joining them for the first time: FRANKLIN BURR, the janitor, a wiry man in his late 50s, who sits rigidly in his chair, eyes darting toward the unseen vending machine, his hands gripping his knees.
The room is silent. Then—the door opens.
GREGORY LANGLEY enters.
Everything about him is the same. The same reflective goggle-like prosthetics. The same suit. The same too-fluid movements. He does not acknowledge the growing unease in the room. He walks to the head of the table. He does not sit.
GREGORY LANGLEY (calm, measured, unshaken)
“This arbitration is now in session.”
(He places his metallic briefcase onto the table, resting his hand upon it as before. No one questions its contents—perhaps because everyone knows it will be empty.)
GREGORY LANGLEY
“A new claim has been submitted. Franklin Burr, custodian, has filed a grievance regarding the vending machine, citing ‘psychological distress, workplace harassment, and implied coercion.’”
(Langley turns his entire body toward Franklin in one slow, deliberate movement. The tension is unbearable.)
GREGORY LANGLEY
“Franklin Burr. You may proceed.”
(Franklin clears his throat. He looks at the others for support. Walter nods vigorously. Mason remains impassive. Angela stares at the table.)
FRANKLIN BURR (shaky, cautious, but determined)
“It started last week. First, just little things. The machine wouldn’t take my money. Then it started... spitting quarters back at me. Just mine. No one else’s.”
(Angela shifts uncomfortably. Walter presses his hands together like he’s praying.)
FRANKLIN BURR (voice lowering)
“Then... it got worse.”
(A pause. Franklin licks his lips. His hands tighten on his knees.)
FRANKLIN BURR
“Tuesday night, I was finishing up. I was alone on the second floor. The break room lights flickered, just a little. I went in to check. And then—” (he swallows hard, barely able to say it) “—I heard it.”
(Angela looks up sharply. Walter inhales sharply through his nose.)
GREGORY LANGLEY (completely neutral, clinical)
“What did it say?”
(Franklin looks at him. Then at Mason, who remains stone-faced. Then at Angela, who shakes her head slightly, as if pleading with him to stop talking.)
FRANKLIN BURR (a whisper, terrified)
“It said my name.”
(Silence. Even the water cooler does not gurgle.)
FRANKLIN BURR (his voice breaking)
“It whispered it. Like the fizzing of a can opening. Frank-liiiin.”
(Walter’s mouth trembles. Angela exhales slowly. Bill Turling scribbles something onto his blank clipboard. Mason simply exhales through his nose.)
MASON DELUCA (cool, unbothered)
“The machine does not speak.”
(Franklin slams his fist on the table. Everyone jumps, except for Langley.)
FRANKLIN BURR (desperate, nearly yelling)
“Then how did it know my name, Mason?! Why did it only reject my quarters?!”
MASON DELUCA (patient, smug, like explaining to a child)
“Coin anomalies are common in vending systems. Temperature fluctuations can cause whispering sounds as carbonation escapes under pressure.”
(Franklin’s face is red with frustration. He turns to Langley, pleading.)
FRANKLIN BURR
“You believe me, don’t you?”
(A long pause. Langley tilts his head, precisely four degrees.)
GREGORY LANGLEY (calm, declarative, final)
“Machines contain multitudes.”
(Franklin stares at him, unblinking. He breathes heavily. He looks at Walter, who nods solemnly. He looks at Angela, who cannot meet his gaze.)
(He looks at Mason. Mason smiles.)
FRANKLIN BURR (a whisper)
“You did this.”
MASON DELUCA (mild, unaffected)
“Did I?”
(Langley turns back to Franklin.)
GREGORY LANGLEY (absolute, final)
“The vending machine has made its choice.”
(Franklin looks like he might scream. But he does not. He slumps back in his chair. The fight leaves him. Walter pats his shoulder. Angela stares at the table. Bill Turling writes another line of nothing. Mason smooths a wrinkle from his sleeve.)
(Langley opens the metallic briefcase. Inside, there is nothing. This is not surprising.)
GREGORY LANGLEY (soft, unshakable)
“The arbitration is concluded.”
(He closes the briefcase. He turns. He exits. The door closes behind him.)
(A long, terrible silence. The vending machine hums. The water cooler gurgles. Angela finally looks up, her voice quiet, almost not there.)
ANGELA ROOK (soft, distant)
“What does it want?”
(Nobody answers.)
(Lights fade to black.)
ACT III: THE FINAL RULING
Scene: The Conference Room, For the Last Time
The same conference room, but now something is... off. The lighting is slightly dimmer. The humming of the vending machine is louder, deeper, more resonant. The water cooler lets out a gurgle that sounds suspiciously like breathing.
The air is heavier. The room is tense.
WALTER BRENNON, MASON DELUCA, and ANGELA ROOK sit at the table. WALTER looks worse than before—his tie is undone, his eyes red-rimmed. ANGELA is holding her pen so tightly it might snap. MASON, however, is the picture of calm, his hands folded neatly on the table.
FRANKLIN BURR is not here.
BILL TURLING stands near the door, gripping his clipboard. But for the first time, he is not writing.
The door opens. Slowly.*
GREGORY LANGLEY enters.
He is unchanged. The same reflective goggle-like prosthetics. The same fluid, unnatural movements. The same air of absolute, impenetrable authority. And yet... something is different. His presence feels heavier. The sound of his shoes against the floor is slightly delayed, as if reality is struggling to keep up with him.
He moves to the head of the table. He does not sit.
GREGORY LANGLEY (calm, precise, final)
“This arbitration is now in session.”
(He places his metallic briefcase onto the table. This time, the impact is slightly louder. The sound lingers.)
GREGORY LANGLEY
“A final claim has been submitted. The vending machine has issued a demand.”
(Silence. A beat. Then—WALTER blinks.)
WALTER BRENNON (hoarse, confused, on the edge of something terrible)
“What?”
GREGORY LANGLEY (unshaken, absolute)
“The vending machine has made a request. Compliance is mandatory.”
(ANGELA exhales sharply. MASON’s expression does not change. BILL TURLING, for the first time, visibly sways on his feet.)
ANGELA ROOK (barely above a whisper)
“What... does it want?”
(A pause. The vending machine hums. The water cooler gurgles.)
GREGORY LANGLEY (with total certainty)
“A sacrifice.”
(Silence.)
(WALTER lets out a short, sharp laugh. It is the laugh of a man who has cracked.)
WALTER BRENNON (shaking his head, laughing bitterly)
“Of course it does. Of course. Of course. The vending machine wants a sacrifice. Fantastic. That’s great.”
ANGELA ROOK (shaken, gripping the table)
“You can’t be serious.”
GREGORY LANGLEY (calm, unwavering)
“Seriousness is irrelevant. Compliance is mandatory.”
WALTER BRENNON (still laughing, but more manic now)
“Nope. Nope. Not happening. Absolutely not happening. What, we’re just supposed to—” (he gestures wildly) “—pick someone? Feed them to the... to the Pepsi-branded altar in the break room? Is that what this is?”
(A pause. The vending machine hums. The water cooler gurgles again—longer this time.)
GREGORY LANGLEY (turning precisely to Mason)
“Mason DeLuca. You have been chosen.”
(MASON smiles.)
MASON DELUCA (gently, nodding)
“I accept.”
(The room does not react. They cannot. Something heavy presses against them. Their bodies are not allowed to move.)
ANGELA ROOK (barely able to speak, shaking her head)
“No. No, no, no, no—”
(MASON stands.)
WALTER BRENNON (choking on disbelief, voice cracking)
“Mason—Mason, what the hell are you—”
MASON DELUCA (calm, almost tender)
“It’s alright, Walter. This was always going to happen.”
(MASON begins to walk toward the unseen vending machine. His movements are smooth, fluid, graceful. He walks with purpose.)
(The humming grows louder. The gurgling shifts into something... different. Wet. The air itself is shaking.)
(MASON stops at the door. He turns, looking at GREGORY LANGLEY.)
MASON DELUCA (a simple question, almost warm)
“Was it always going to be me?”
(A beat. Langley tilts his head four degrees.)
GREGORY LANGLEY (without hesitation)
“Machines contain multitudes.”
(MASON nods. He steps through the door. It closes behind him.)
(The humming stops. The water cooler falls silent. The air settles. Everything is still.)
(A long, terrible pause.)
ANGELA ROOK (barely above a whisper, barely real)
“What happens now?”
(Langley finally opens the metallic briefcase. Inside, there is nothing. But this time... it feels different.)
GREGORY LANGLEY (soft, final, absolute)
“The arbitration is concluded.”
(He closes the briefcase. He turns. He exits. The door closes behind him.)
(A long, aching silence. WALTER stares at the table. ANGELA’s hands are shaking. BILL TURLING grips his clipboard so tightly his knuckles are white.)
(The vending machine does not hum. The water cooler does not gurgle. The room is impossibly, painfully silent.)
(The lights begin to fade. As they do—just before the stage is swallowed in darkness—there is one final sound.)
(A single, sharp, click-pop from the vending machine.)
(Lights out.)
END OF PLAY.