PKD

The jar refused to open. It said, "Five cents, please."

He searched his pockets. No more coins; nothing. "I’ll pay you tomorrow," he told the jar. Again he tried the lid. Again it remained sealed tight. "What I pay you," he informed it, "is in the nature of a gratuity; I don’t have to pay you."

"I think otherwise," the jar said. "Look in the purchase contract you signed when you bought this conapt."

In his desk drawer he found the contract; since signing it he had found it necessary to refer to the document many times. Sure enough; payment to his jars for opening and shutting constituted a mandatory fee. Not a tip.

"You discover I’m right," the jar said. It sounded smug.

From the drawer beside the sink Joe Chip got a stainless steel knife; with it he began systematically to rap on the lid of his mustard's money-gulping lid.

"I’ll sue you," the jar said as the lid began to loosen.

Joe Chip said, "I’ve never been sued by a jar. But I guess I can live through it."