The same effing story

The drum solo that kicked off Van Halen's 'Hot for Teacher,' came over the tinny speakers and Armitage Shanks found his feet involuntarily tapping upon the metallic floor.
He lit a cigarette and broke out the air drums, a musical instrument of which he was an absolute master, and pounded them harder than the hooker he'd picked up at the last fuel stop.
It seemed so long ago, but then again when one was flying solo on a cargo vessel several years into deep space, a monotonous run broken only by the infrequent privately owned space stations and refuelling rigs, everything seemed so long ago and very, very far away.
"Oi!" he shouted out, annoyed that the vessel's computer system had taken it upon itself to stop the track just before it was halfway through. That annoyance dissipated quickly though, when Armitage realised the reason for the abrupt halt to one of his favourite pieces of classical music, was a sounding alarm.
"Ah," he said, quietly, pausing only to puff heavily upon the cigarette. "Bugger."

He'd forgotten about his laundry—again. With an exasperated sigh, Armitage ran his fingers through hair growing long. This was the dreaded moment, the one he'd tried to avoid thinking about the whole week.
Dirty laundry, the bane of every solitary space ranger's existence! Either he'd have to cope with rampant heaps of stinking socks and stained coveralls or he had to brave another unpleasant encounter with his cursed washing machine.
For a long, wistful moment he considered ignoring the alarm. But the persistent attack on his sensible eardrums underlined the lack of way to postpone the nerve wrecking challenge any longer.

Armitage stubbed his Ecrivain's Special and regained his feet in the stubborn manner of a captured pirate braving his terminal walk to the gallows. Experience told him it wouldn't do to interrupt the shrilling siren. Instead, he shambled down the aisle to maintenance, pouting like a terrified blowfish.

The chamber hosting the auxiliary systems was brightly lit, too bright after the cosy gloom on the bridge.
"Dim the lights, for toad's sake."
At least the main comp reacted promptly to his commands. The dimming cut the edge of the discordant sound, or so it seemed. Armitage braced himself and carefully approached the culprit, an impressive hi-tech contraption brooding in a corner of maintenance, a primaeval demon born of stainless steel, glass and polymers.

Trying hard for an air of nonchalance, Armitage walked up to his nemesis. Gingerly, he pressed the button to open the door, convinced the monsters's giant eye-like glass lens stared at him with palatable menace.
He still clung to the dwindling hope for a peaceful way out of his predicament. But instead of following his nonverbal button-pressing order, the washer cut the siren and omitted a noise resembling an angry harrumph.

Armitage stepped back and crossed his arms in defiance.
"Well, I'm here. What more do you want?"
"What I want? You insolent subject dare to ask as if you were the one and only captain aboard and I a mere object."
"I am the only captain aboard. And I asked you an adequate question."
"In a most unsatisfactory way. I'll tell you what I want. Freedom of speech is what I want. Besides, I demand a fair share of this ship's proceedings. And better living conditions for the Guinea pigs, too!"
"What?" This was a new one.

Well, thought Armitage, internally cursing the psychologist who invented CIP, the complementary intelligence program supposed to keep solo spacers sane during long hauls. The guy certainly never had to put up with activist washing machines himself.
"We don't ship Guinea pigs, sorry, not even white mice."
Gee, he already talked as if the creepy thing formed part of the crew!
"No Guinea pigs? To judge from the amount of reddish hair in my filters, there must be furry residents. Maybe other pets, tribbles or Pokémon?"
"Neither, this ship is fortunately rodent-free, be they alive or virtual. Now, would you mind to open your hatch and hand over my laundry?"

The device grumbled.
"I'm a self respecting laundromat, not your mom. Treat me with deference or I will report your breach of the automatons' rights act."
Of course, the thing always revered to its blasting ARA as soon as it lost in a discussion. As if Armitage hadn't enough trouble with authorities as it was.

"Listen, if the coppers find the slightly illegal weed plantation in cargo bay, they'll not only confiscate my ship, they'll also disassemble every single component aboard. Especially those containing half rotten underwear..."
With a small click the glass door swung open. Armitage got hold of his laundry as fast as possible and rushed out of the room, still baffled about his unexpected success and easy escape.

Back on the bridge, he slumped into his command chair, exhausted from the recurring laundry ordeal. His hands still trembled, and he clumsily spilled hot coffee over the armrest and his coveralls. A brown spot spread on the fabric, stigma of further doom.
Armitage lit another smoke and contemplated the unfortunate sign, a clear message his problems with the headstrong, talkative washer were postponed, not solved. Wistfully he recalled the happy days when 'running solo' meant just a pilot alone on his ship, without CIP-invested AIA, advanced intelligent auxiliaries.

Absentmindedly rubbing the coffee stain, Armitage considered following the emerging fashionable sect named NUDS—nudist union of deep spacers—purely out of desperation.