A Robot in The Bronx, Pt 4- The crackhouse of horrors
While Jerky sat in the lobby of the hotel conversing with the coffee machine and enjoying some nuts and bolts courtesy of the continental breakfast, he processed a thought. “Maybe…” he thought, “maybe there is a Pro-Jek-Tor central headquarters…” He started going through the phone directory in his main CPU while the coffee machine kept droning on about something involving African Americans and big bird. Jerky was really not all that interested. “Ah…found it…”
This is why exactly an hour later he found himself standing outside of the headquarters. “If this is the headquarters, then they need to make some cutbacks.” The so called “headquarters” looked more like a crack house. The one story brick building looked like it had been rotting for sometime. Some of the windows were boarded up, while others were covered with trash bags. There was not one whole, unbroken window.
Upon entering the “house” through the creaking, seemingly bloodstained door, Jerky immediately noticed the stench. His smell receptors distinguished one dead skunk, one live skunk, a dog, two cats, used condoms of the ribbed variety and several different types of feces. One of which was “type unknown”. Jerky turned a corner and found himself staring down a long, dark hallway.
“Hey mother fucka! Shut tha door!” Jerky ignored this request. “Who is there?” Jerky asked, afraid of the reply, even though robots don’t have fear. “It’s yo dealuh, son. Now if you want dis’ crack, you best pay up and not cause no trouble.” Jerky paused. Obviously the “dealer” thought he was someone else. “It’s rather dark in here…” Jerky said, in reference to the hallway. “You callin’ me a nigga!?!” screamed the man on the other side of the door at the end of the hallway. “No sir. I was just trying to convey…”
The man burst through the door pointing a gun right in Jerky’s face. “Why you gotta call me a nigga, man?” He shot Jerky twice in the face at point blank range. “Why do they always shoot me?” he thought to himself while simultaneously jamming his smallest robot finger into the man’s eye. The man screamed. Jerky seized this opportunity to grab his arm and snap it like the wishbone of a baby turkey with osteoporosis. The man didn’t scream. Jerky concluded that he passed out from the pain.
After exploring the house thoroughly and finding nothing in relation to Pro-Jek-Tor Inc., he decided to call it a day. A crack house arm snapping day.
This is why exactly an hour later he found himself standing outside of the headquarters. “If this is the headquarters, then they need to make some cutbacks.” The so called “headquarters” looked more like a crack house. The one story brick building looked like it had been rotting for sometime. Some of the windows were boarded up, while others were covered with trash bags. There was not one whole, unbroken window.
Upon entering the “house” through the creaking, seemingly bloodstained door, Jerky immediately noticed the stench. His smell receptors distinguished one dead skunk, one live skunk, a dog, two cats, used condoms of the ribbed variety and several different types of feces. One of which was “type unknown”. Jerky turned a corner and found himself staring down a long, dark hallway.
“Hey mother fucka! Shut tha door!” Jerky ignored this request. “Who is there?” Jerky asked, afraid of the reply, even though robots don’t have fear. “It’s yo dealuh, son. Now if you want dis’ crack, you best pay up and not cause no trouble.” Jerky paused. Obviously the “dealer” thought he was someone else. “It’s rather dark in here…” Jerky said, in reference to the hallway. “You callin’ me a nigga!?!” screamed the man on the other side of the door at the end of the hallway. “No sir. I was just trying to convey…”
The man burst through the door pointing a gun right in Jerky’s face. “Why you gotta call me a nigga, man?” He shot Jerky twice in the face at point blank range. “Why do they always shoot me?” he thought to himself while simultaneously jamming his smallest robot finger into the man’s eye. The man screamed. Jerky seized this opportunity to grab his arm and snap it like the wishbone of a baby turkey with osteoporosis. The man didn’t scream. Jerky concluded that he passed out from the pain.
After exploring the house thoroughly and finding nothing in relation to Pro-Jek-Tor Inc., he decided to call it a day. A crack house arm snapping day.