Sir Reginald Will Not Only Not Read Your Blog, He Will Also Not Say the Word Aloud
Wait for it...wait for it...
“Face it, Reg, science is the new magic,” said Man-X, or as his birth certificate reads, Christopher Jorgenson.
Sir Reginald was momentarily silent, not because he didn’t have anything to say, but because it was taking a large portion of his willpower not to pop one of the countless whiteheads that dotted the man’s face. Reginald has never had a problem with other people’s acne before, but it was so stereotypical on this man that it inexplicably rubbed him the wrong way.
“What’s the matter…Reg?” Man-X sneered, “Sega’s ‘Near Me’ Robot Cat got your tongue? Terrified that the cyborg is the way of the future?”
That snapped Sir Reginald’s mind back into place.
“Mannix,” he said, smiling inside when the youth failed to feel insulted, “you’re not a cyborg. Your strength is not that of ten men, it’s that of about 2/3 of a man. Your telescopic vision only works when you put that silly looking attachment on your sunglasses. And I smoke about seventy-five cigars, one-hundred and twelve bowls of tobacco, and a few dozen cigarettes a day and could STILL outrun you.”
One of the bizarre motors on Man-X’s ubiquitous black trenchcoat whirred for a moment as its fan spun to cool it down.
“Just because you wear clothes that makes you look like an extra from Blakes 7 and have jammed enough silly bits of metal under your skin to look like a Borg stunt double does not make you more human than human! It just makes you a twat.”
“Ah, Reginald, your pop-culture japes do so make me laugh,” Man-X replied, proving it by activating his surgically-grafted second-hand vocoder and emitting a horrible half-real, half-electronic howl.
Sir Reginald resisted the urge to punch him in the face.
“When I enter my house, I can activate everything electrical in the entire place. From the television to the coffeemaker, all I have to do is think hard and it happens. All because of this,” he said, tapping a modified universal remote grafted into his arm that finally looked like it was no longer infected. If Sir Reginald’s cockles weren’t raised yet, they were now.
“When I point this finger,” Man-X said, raising his right hand and showing off his copper gothic full-finger armor ring, complete with wires stringing from it to under his skin, “at a car, I can start or stop its engine. Unless it’s a Lexus. Or a Saab.”
“I know the time, temperature, humidity, barometer reading, my precise latitude and longitude, can read today’s Tribune, and tell where the nearest theatre showing Big Mama’s House 2 is, just by moving my eye around to look at the menu inside my sunglasses.”
He smiled, showing off number of metallic teeth. Sir Reginald thought briefly about how their wooded surroundings threw the young man’s accoutrements into sharp relief.
“Face it, Reginald, within a few years, there will be nothing you can do that I can’t do better.”
“Except throw a left hook!” Sir Reginald replied, throwing one at the young man’s face. When the resulting electric shock instantly blistered his knuckles and burned the hair off his fingers, he pulled his punch as quickly as he could.
Man-X simply laughed and absent-mindedly daubed the pus from a few broken pimples with a handkerchief.
“You see, Reg, even though you’re stronger and faster than me, you still can’t hurt me, can you? And I don’t even have my defensive voltage turned up to half its capacity.” He punctuated this statement by kicking Sir Reginald in the chest with his cleats, leaving smoking holes in the man’s immaculately starched shirt. Reginald, clearly off balance, attempted to find somewhere relatively painless to fall, kicking up a cloud of dirt when he finally did. Man-X strode forward purposefully as Sir Reginald struggled to get to his feet.
“So…where’s your magic now?” giggled Man-X.
Sir Reginald said nothing, simply drew his arm from behind his back, and revealed a two-foot length of tree branch in his hand.
When he had finished the merciless beating, he dropped the bloodied limb on his adversary’s chest, which had begun to smoke.
“Sleight-of-hand is still magic,” he coughed, a little blood coming up with it. Sir Reginald was walking out of the forest when his cell phone rang.
He stamped on it until one of his shoelaces broke.
benjamin
“Face it, Reg, science is the new magic,” said Man-X, or as his birth certificate reads, Christopher Jorgenson.
Sir Reginald was momentarily silent, not because he didn’t have anything to say, but because it was taking a large portion of his willpower not to pop one of the countless whiteheads that dotted the man’s face. Reginald has never had a problem with other people’s acne before, but it was so stereotypical on this man that it inexplicably rubbed him the wrong way.
“What’s the matter…Reg?” Man-X sneered, “Sega’s ‘Near Me’ Robot Cat got your tongue? Terrified that the cyborg is the way of the future?”
That snapped Sir Reginald’s mind back into place.
“Mannix,” he said, smiling inside when the youth failed to feel insulted, “you’re not a cyborg. Your strength is not that of ten men, it’s that of about 2/3 of a man. Your telescopic vision only works when you put that silly looking attachment on your sunglasses. And I smoke about seventy-five cigars, one-hundred and twelve bowls of tobacco, and a few dozen cigarettes a day and could STILL outrun you.”
One of the bizarre motors on Man-X’s ubiquitous black trenchcoat whirred for a moment as its fan spun to cool it down.
“Just because you wear clothes that makes you look like an extra from Blakes 7 and have jammed enough silly bits of metal under your skin to look like a Borg stunt double does not make you more human than human! It just makes you a twat.”
“Ah, Reginald, your pop-culture japes do so make me laugh,” Man-X replied, proving it by activating his surgically-grafted second-hand vocoder and emitting a horrible half-real, half-electronic howl.
Sir Reginald resisted the urge to punch him in the face.
“When I enter my house, I can activate everything electrical in the entire place. From the television to the coffeemaker, all I have to do is think hard and it happens. All because of this,” he said, tapping a modified universal remote grafted into his arm that finally looked like it was no longer infected. If Sir Reginald’s cockles weren’t raised yet, they were now.
“When I point this finger,” Man-X said, raising his right hand and showing off his copper gothic full-finger armor ring, complete with wires stringing from it to under his skin, “at a car, I can start or stop its engine. Unless it’s a Lexus. Or a Saab.”
“I know the time, temperature, humidity, barometer reading, my precise latitude and longitude, can read today’s Tribune, and tell where the nearest theatre showing Big Mama’s House 2 is, just by moving my eye around to look at the menu inside my sunglasses.”
He smiled, showing off number of metallic teeth. Sir Reginald thought briefly about how their wooded surroundings threw the young man’s accoutrements into sharp relief.
“Face it, Reginald, within a few years, there will be nothing you can do that I can’t do better.”
“Except throw a left hook!” Sir Reginald replied, throwing one at the young man’s face. When the resulting electric shock instantly blistered his knuckles and burned the hair off his fingers, he pulled his punch as quickly as he could.
Man-X simply laughed and absent-mindedly daubed the pus from a few broken pimples with a handkerchief.
“You see, Reg, even though you’re stronger and faster than me, you still can’t hurt me, can you? And I don’t even have my defensive voltage turned up to half its capacity.” He punctuated this statement by kicking Sir Reginald in the chest with his cleats, leaving smoking holes in the man’s immaculately starched shirt. Reginald, clearly off balance, attempted to find somewhere relatively painless to fall, kicking up a cloud of dirt when he finally did. Man-X strode forward purposefully as Sir Reginald struggled to get to his feet.
“So…where’s your magic now?” giggled Man-X.
Sir Reginald said nothing, simply drew his arm from behind his back, and revealed a two-foot length of tree branch in his hand.
When he had finished the merciless beating, he dropped the bloodied limb on his adversary’s chest, which had begun to smoke.
“Sleight-of-hand is still magic,” he coughed, a little blood coming up with it. Sir Reginald was walking out of the forest when his cell phone rang.
He stamped on it until one of his shoelaces broke.
benjamin