The Baron is disabling mind-reading boxes
I jolted awake at the sound of pounding metal. My eyes opened instinctively, just in time to see the only door to the room shut with the same sound. A squeak echoed through the steel room briefly, then stopped as suddenly as it had started. When I sat up, expecting the room to whirl and break dance around my head for the second time, I was pleased to find that it only quietly shuffled around me with its hands in its pockets. I gently spun around and dangled my feet over the edge of the table, rubbing my head and trying to cope with the nonexistent motion of the room. My headache was pounding away at my brain like someone trying to liquefy concrete with a thirty-foot pneumatic jackhammer. The odd thing was that the very instant this thought entered my mind, a rod shot up directly in front of my face and seemed to offer me a small round tablet and a glass of water with incredible zest.
A laid-back voice said “Fink an’ a hobo cocktail for your burnin’ headache, man.”
Through sheer instinct, my hand shot out, grabbed the arm, and ripped it from its base, sending the glass of water crashing to the ground and the pill skipping across the slick metal floor. Before I could gather my thoughts enough to say anything, the voice spoke again.
“Aw, now you gone and ripped off my paws, cat!” said the same scratchy voice.
Confused and queasy, I looked down to see a thoroughly dented metal box on a set of oddly sized wheels. The thing was covered in an eccentric collection of bumper stickers, almost completely covering its partially rusted metal shell.
“I ain’t got beef, you dig?” said the box, who wheeled itself to the opposite side of the room with surprising speed and a barely audible squeak. It started driving in panicky circles, like it was trying to formulate an escape or jump-start a lawn mower.
I had no idea what its intentions were at this point and my first instinct was to get it to stop darting around the room like some swordfighter jumped up on eighty cups of black coffee. I leapt up from my spot on the cold table and kicked the box against the wall, flipping it over.
“You got your boots laced all wrong, bozo. Nah, man, my intentions jive. And in case you’re wondering, I’m programmed to jump around like a swordfighter guzzlin’ eighty cups of black kinker. That‘s some vivid imagery, ziggerboo.” said the box.
“What the fuck?” I said, as I wondered if it was actually possible for this beat up heap of trash to be reading my every thought.
“Man… not only is it possible, but it’s impossible for me not to scan your waves. You collar that jive?” replied the dented, rusty box.
“Well, in that case…” I said as I ripped off its wheels and jammed it into a metal cabinet. I wasn’t collaring his jive.