The robot got lucky, in two ways: one, he’d found the right kind of adapter, and two, well, he “got lucky” with that exotic little wall socket.
His luck was short-lived, however, when he found out why a different plug was needed: double the voltage he was designed to take.
“Shazzbot,” said Shutzbot.
Shutzbot always said that when he was discovered.
“Bleep bloop bleep” was the usual follow-up, but not today. No, today Shutzbot is different.
Today, Shutzbot is 5.3 years old. He has reached robot puberty.
Shutzbot needs to find a socket to plug into.
His synthetic hormones demand it.
“What’s in the box?” she asked.
“I can’t tell you. Now stop asking.”
Actually, he could tell her, but what was in the box was a paradox. If anyone else knew what was in the box, they would simply go mad.
“If I told you, I’d have to kill you.”
Every time he sneezed, he would travel back in time by thirty seconds. It eventually became a major annoyance. He compensated for it by using it for his own entertainment: warping around, startling people. Then he got cocky, and provoked the wrong person. Thirty seconds later, he still hadn’t sneezed.
This new serial killer was the bane of Hollywood.
Studio executives were terrorized, production companies’ stock was plummeting… Most productions were put on hold, pending the arrest of this madman.
But the populace cheered him on.
The more serials, sequels, prequels and remakes got killed, the more fans he got.
“Here’s a neat trick,” he said.
He opened his mouth, real wide. He inserted his hand, then his arm, down his throat. His shoulder dislocated to go farther down. He stopped. Then his arm came back out, and he pulled himself inside out.
“What do you think?”
“You’re still ugly.”
When John died, representatives of Heaven and Hell showed up.
“Come with me, and live in eternal bliss, love and happiness,” said the angel.
“Sounds boring, don’t it?” said the little devil. “Come with me, it’ll be fun!”
“Your pants are on fire,” said John.
“Occupational Hazard,” said the devil.
He was going to die.
It was all happening very suddenly, but there was this infinitesimally short instant of calm, where he got the chance to reflect on the past, and watch a rerun of his entire life.
He didn’t expect it to fit within a fifty word story, though.
“All jokes are finite (all have punchlines.) Naturally, the longest joke must also be finite.”
“Agreed.”
“Consequently, there’s a finite number of character arrangements that can form a joke.”
“Yes.”
“Ergo, there’s a finite number of jokes.”
“What happens if we tell the last joke?”
“I think we just did.”
Spring dawned as we hunted bears. One, two, three, they fell before our weapons.
The meat was one of our goals, but skinning them and turning their hides into winter coats for next year’s cold was our main objective.
But these bears were different. Possessed.
Beware the hides of March.