Tagged: robot

I’d Learned to Tune Out Exhaustion

  • by Kentweird cotton candy grapes
  • how many dollars a live yeti could be sold for
  • “Oo, yeah. Robots.”
  • find you a new cloak
  • dark and sexy

Tune in next time part 884      Click Here for Earlier Installments

I’d learned to tune out exhaustion over the years, so it took a moment of deliberate reflection to assess my current state. Yeah, I was borderline delirious with lack of sleep. And, I was ravenously hungry. Functioning without nourishment is another skill one develops in the spy biz, but the key is to focus on the task at hand and deny your body’s basic physical imperatives, so now that I’d considered food I could think of nothing else. Alarmingly, the thing I craved was the weird cotton candy grapes they had in the commissary at Enigma Fortress. But perhaps that wasn’t so strange. My memories of my time in the Paradoxica Mountains were fond ones. That frozen landscape  seemed a place where I could be happy, especially if I didn’t have to be in command of the garrison. I might find out how many dollars a live yeti could be sold for. I might find a place to settle down with Tessa and/or her many robot duplicates.

Small Dennis said, “Oo, yeah. Robots.”

I had no idea how much I’d said out loud. If I couldn’t keep my shit together better than that, leaving the spy game wasn’t going to be optional. I chanced a look at Fleur. She was smiling. That always makes me nervous, but it looked like a kind smile.

“I could tell the captain to change course,” she said. “Drop you off at Enigma Fortress in a day or two, which gives us time to find you a new cloak, something dark and sexy.”

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“If You Don’t Want to Live by the Dictates of Robots”

  • by jenthe white fish of the Kentucky caves, for instance
  • Grandma was even worse
  • texture is almost mousse-like
  • To say that I don’t understand much of modern art
  • is like baking a cake without a pan

Tune in next time part 757      Click Here for Earlier Installments

“If you don’t want to live by the dictates of robots, Zeus Pamplemousse,” I asked, “why did you appoint them to all the posts in the lunar government?”

“Because they don’t need oxygen, obviously,” he sneered. “There is no oxygen in my Moon Kingdom, as you would know if you had more brains than, say, the white fish of the Kentucky caves, for instance.”

My grandfather was very rude. Grandma was even worse. But neither of them held a candle to the arrogance of this man, this self-appointed Moon King who held my beloved Tessa hostage to his whims.

“Have you even been to the moon?” I asked.

“Of course! I personally placed all the robots in Parliamoont Hall. Mother Moon is a beautiful place, with immense gray expanses. The texture is almost mousse-like underfoot.”

To say that I don’t understand much about modern art is like baking a cake without a pan – completely incorrect. I understand a lot about modern art, and I was sure that arranging for a crowd of robots to argue about politics on the surface of the moon was the most audacious art installation of the modern era. Not that that would help me pry Tessa out the moon maniac’s arms.

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I Climbed Out of the Bathtub

  • by jenShhh, don’t tell anyone!
  • the chirps and squeals that he makes
  • As a fan of miniatures
  • overcoming my frog phobia with hypnosis
  • The only thing he never changed was his shoes.

Tune in next time part 747      Click Here for Earlier Installments

I climbed out of the bathtub with Tessa in my arms and carried her into the bedroom. I shut the door behind us for a little privacy.

“Where are your clothes?” I asked. “You should get out of here before Isolde comes back. I’ll meet you later.”

Tessa shook her head. “I’m not going anywhere until I get what I came for.” She ran her hand down my still-dripping torso and gave me a gentle squeeze. “We’ll be quick. Shhh, don’t tell anyone!” She pushed me onto the bed.

In the bathroom I heard splashing and giggles as Fleur played with the infants. “Tessa…”

“That son of yours is quite a happy fellow. Just ignore the chirps and squeals that he makes.” I found her argument quite persuasive as she climbed on top of me. I still didn’t know whether this was the true Tessa, or one of the TSS-A units. If it was a robot, it was impeccably programmed to move just like my beloved. It also shared her penchant for awkwardly timed announcements. “As a fan of miniatures in general, I should find babies adorable, but they remind me so much of frogs.” This was said as she arched her back just so. “I’ve been overcoming my frog phobia with hypnosis, though, with the help of a very qualified therapist. Or I was anyway, before he went missing. He changed my mind about holding grudges, he changed my whole outlook on revenge. He changed so many things! The only thing he never changed was his shoes.” She gave an exultant cry and collapsed onto my chest. Her next words were muffled by my chest hair. “You can imagine how alarming it was when I arrived for my appointment and he wasn’t there, but his Birkenstocks were.” She sat up and looked me in the eye. “Tell me you’ll help me find him.”

Before I could even ask any questions about this mysterious therapist, I heard footsteps in the hall outside my door. Had Isolde returned so soon?

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When You Picture the Ensuite Bathroom

  • by jenone of those quiet, picturesque places
  • an unfettered clusterfuck
  • unless they hug me first
  • saving up for a pet snake
  • odd and possibly charming

Tune in next time part 745      Click Here for Earlier Installments

When you picture the ensuite bathroom of a General’s stateroom on a Royal Contrarian airship, I’m sure you envision one of those quiet, picturesque places full of bamboo and soothing colors where one can relax after a long day of Generalizing. Would that it were. My ensuite bathroom was about to host an unfettered clusterfuck if my wife discovered Tessa in the tub with us. Fleur and I have an understanding, but that only goes so far. I haven’t reviewed the paperwork in a while, but I’m pretty sure that I’m not supposed to have anyone else join us in the bathtub unless they hug me first and curtsey to her. Tessa had, in fact, thrown herself upon me with all the fervency of someone who’d spent years saving up for a pet snake only to arrive at the reptilarium on two-for-one day. That surely counted as a hug. But she had not curtsied to Fleur. Perhaps she could do so now? There was a chance Fleur would find the gesture odd and possibly charming enough to forgive the breach in etiquette. It might be our only chance, since it seemed she was never planning to exit the tub. It also might backfire spectacularly.

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The Gruff-Voiced Individual

  • by jenI like a good montage
  • I’m like, Hey! A little privacy here!
  • buckle the fuck up
  • the bird in the paper bag
  • his undershirts snap at the crotch

Tune in next time part 615      Click Here for Earlier Installments

The gruff-voiced individual appeared from behind the door of the minifridge and stood to his full height. He was wearing a fluorescent green wig and sharing a palm-tree-shaped bikini with another similarly bewigged man.

“Bandits,” Tessa whispered.

This underground adventure had been going on so long, it was getting tedious. I like a good montage from time to time, so I’ll employ one now.

Tessa gives me a taste of my own medicine by doffing her clothes and pouncing on Uncles Gramophone and Daguerreotype. I use the bathroom (I forgot to do that when I was in the actual outhouse) and get walked in on by a different set of Uncles, and I’m like, Hey! A little Privacy here! and they’re like, This is our bathroom, bub! Buckle the fuck up and get the fuck out! and I hurry out and find Tessa in the position we call The Bird in the Paper Bag, and Tessa tells the uncles not to be jealous because “his undershirts snap at the crotch” and I get so embarrassed I run down the tunnel without her, all the way to Twerkistan, while she just laughs and kisses all the uncles.

End of montage.

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The Four Uncles

  • by jendrive your dreams!
  • huddling together for warmth
  • enjoyed a few hours’ sleep
  • wipe it on the doorknob
  • just like after a parade

Tune in next time part 613      Click Here for Earlier Installments

The four uncles gathered around me, purring and sweaty. It was a sight to drive your dreams! We did our cool-down exercises and ended up in a pile on the floor, huddling together for warmth. I dropped off and enjoyed a few hours’ sleep, but was awakened abruptly by the robotic facsimile of my true love tugging insistently at my ankle. I wanted to rub my eyes, but my hand was quite a mess.

“Why don’t you wipe it on the doorknob?” the grumpy Tessabot hissed. “Isn’t that what they taught you at the Academy? Like after prom, or after health class, or just like after a parade of debauchery you called Homecoming?”

I crawled gingerly out of the pile of uncles, doing my best not to disturb them. They must be at least as exhausted as I was.

“Why are you so mad?” I demanded. “You’re the one who used me as a diversionary tactic while you made your escape. And what doorknob are you talking about? There are no doorknobs in this tunnel.”

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I Fought to Remain Conscious

  • by jenreferred to by the much cooler moniker
  • dressing provocatively, singing provocative songs
  • helium balloon with a rainbow
  • pulled my hair really hard
  • my vision is clear

Tune in next time part 607      Click Here for Earlier Installments

I fought to remain conscious as John’s airborne sedative worked through my system. As the inventor, he tried to make everyone at the Academy call it “John Juice,” and hated when it was referred to by the much cooler moniker of my own invention: “Sleepytime Spray.” As his lab partner in The Chemistry of Spycraft, I helped John a lot during the testing of his concoction, dressing provocatively, singing provocative songs, and otherwise distracting our fellow students so John could sneak up and thrust a (presumed) helium balloon with a rainbow on the side in their faces, and pop it. Of course, the balloons weren’t filled with helium at all, but with Sleepytime Spray. Once he had the sedation chemistry dialed in, he just had to find a different means of deployment, as everyone in the biz had come to fear balloons with rainbows. Obviously he’d settled on this disgusting saliva trigger.

But what John didn’t know was that I wasn’t Jason. I was Jason’s twin brother, practically a co-inventor of the wretched substance, and over our time developing it, I had cultivated a near-immunity to its effects. All I needed was one good dose of pain and I’d snap out of it. I slowly reached up and pulled my hair really hard.

“My vision is clear,” I told the inert Tessa. “In another moment I’ll be able to stand. Blink if you can hear me.”

But she did not blink.

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“I’m Not Fond of the Smell in Here”

  • by jenenhanced by the extreme slipperiness
  • Then again, maybe it’s the perfect place
  • the librarians themselves did not have the slightest idea
  • where these fingertips came from
  • to believe in magic

Tune in next time part 593    Click Here for Earlier Installments

“I’m not fond of the smell in here,” I said as my nose wrinkled. “Twerkistan is primitive as cities go, but it’s got to be better than this poop shack.”

I opened the door and stepped out into a burst of sleet, which, enhanced by the extreme slipperiness of the Bumpbengryndian snow, dumped me on my ass. I grabbed the doorframe and pulled myself back in, saying, “Then again, maybe it’s the perfect place to ride out this storm.”

Tessa slammed the door closed. I stripped off my now-soaked clothes and began the very slow process of drying them by the heat of the miserly oil lamp. Tessa took up the newspaper that was on hand for use in butt-wiping, and read to me an article about a gruesome discovery at the Twerkistan public libraries. “The librarians themselves did not have the slightest idea where these fingertips came from, or whose they were. But they quickly grew tired of finding them in the card catalog drawers every morning. Usually not ones to believe in magic, they made an exception and called upon a local wizard for help. After his visit, there were no more fingertips in the card catalog. Instead they were found, first thing each day, stuck to the keyboard of the public computer.”

A shiver ran down my spine — not one caused by the icy conditions outside. “Fingertips! You know what that means.”

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“None of Us Know”

  • by Kentweird hiccup action
  • spontaneous in origin and artistically harmonized
  • Are you two brothers?
  • kinda fun, in a spill-proof way
  • slaughter any scouting parties we encountered

Tune in next time part 592    Click Here for Earlier Installments

“None of us know exactly how many others exist,” the Tessabot explained. “We’ve just run into each other now and then and shared info. My nickname is…” She rolled her eyes. “Do I have to tell you?”

I nodded.

Her voice dropped so much I could barely hear her say it. “The Toot Fairy.”

“Did you say ‘Tooth Fairy’?” I asked hopefully.

“No, the Toot Fairy,” she repeated. Each time she said the name there was some kind of weird hiccup action on the word ‘toot.’ She sighed. “There’s no real system to the nicknames; our goal was for them to be spontanous in origin and aritistically harmonized.”

“How about if I keep calling you Tessa?”

She nodded gratefully. “Even though it does sometimes give me an identity crisis.”

“That I can relate to,” I said. “Having a twin. As kids we seldom went around together, but anytime we did people would see us and ask, ‘Are you two brothers?‘”

She laughed.

I said, “We really do need to reach Twerkistan. Never mind the photographer, it’s a matter of basic survival.”

“Speak for yourself. I can last indefinitely in the wilderness. Being a TSS-A Unit has its advantages, and can be kinda fun, in a spill-proof way.”

“Spill-proof? And here I was counting on you to slaughter any scouting parties we encountered on the way.”

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The Isles of Bumpengrynd Were so Small

  • by jenwasn’t on any contemporary maps
  • a dismal little oil lamp
  • her American counterpart, Dr Roverpants
  • through brute force and righteous anger
  • every modeling agency, every dance academy

Tune in next time part 591    Click Here for Earlier Installments

The Isles of Bumpengrynd were so small and remote that the capital city, Twerkistan, wasn’t on any contemporary maps you could find on the internet. So of course this desolate rest stop lit only by a dismal little oil lamp was utterly vacant. The Tessabot sighed and plopped down on the primitive toilet. “Why are we even chasing this photographer?” she asked.

“To stop him from selling the pictures he took of us.”

“Why does it even matter? You can deny everything. You have a twin and no one will be able to tell which T-SSA Unit I am.” She went on to tell me about her American counterpart, Dr Roverpants, a Tessabot I had never met. That made at least three of them, and this Tessabot had ridiculous nicknames for the other two. Dr Roverpants, through brute force and righteous anger, took over every modeling agency, every dance academy, and the majority of the escort services in Miami. The one she called Professor Twinkletush was the one I’d seen thrown off a rooftop in Valentine Village.

“How many of you are there?”  I asked. “And what do the others call you?”

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