Stanley Jenkins was in
trouble. He just didn’t know it
yet.
Wait. That’s a lie.
He knew he was in trouble. He
just didn’t know who would kill him first. Both the Crocs and the Gators wanted
him dead. The Crocs wanted to kill him
and eat him, and the Gators wanted to feast on his intestines first before
killing him. Since Stanley had an adverse reaction to the whole death thing, he
did the only thing his cowardly and meek soul knew how to do.
He ran.
He’s sitting at an airport right
now, in fact. He’s left behind every
aspect of his life in order to escape the situation he found himself in. His girlfriend, his dad, his three-headed
talking dog, all left behind, thrown away at the need to survive. About five minutes ago he bought a shuttle to
Saturn IV, an outpost near Saturn’s moon, Titan. The outpost is a great hiding place for those
smuggling meat into the Solar System.
It’s also a great place for people to hide when being chased by angry
reptiles with weapons and an insatiable hunger for killing those who they
believe wronged them. It also has a
wonderful space resort, with the best space racquetball court in any nearby
galaxy.
Sitting in his chair, watching the
holographic news anchor drone on about stock prices, the rising cost of fresh
fruit, and the failed attempt by religious cult to blow up Mercury (it offends
their god for some unknown reason), he attempts to look nonchalant. His blue eyes have been replaced with dark
brown eyes, done through a black-market surgeon. His mustache was shaved off, and a scar was
manufactured across his upper lip. He is
wearing a beanie to hide his balding head.
He attempts to eat his chocolate chip cookie-flavored snack ration, but
it appears his nerves are not allowing any food to go down without a serious
case of heartburn.
A Great Dane sitting next to him
sniffs the snack ration. “Hey Human
male,” its vocal modification system says with a hint of a British accent, “Are
you intending to eat that snack ration, or may I partake of its delicious
flavor?” Stanley tears open the snack
ration a little more then hands the ration to the dog. “Most obliged, good sir,” the dog says before
shoveling the entirety of the foil-wrapped mush into its impressive maw,
swallowing the ration and the food in a few chews.
“Attention, passengers of Shuttle
flight 16540 to Saturn IV,” the robotic voice of some long-dead celebrity
dispassionately comes on over the loudspeakers,
“Your shuttle has been delayed for the following reasons.” Another voice, male perhaps, comes on then to
offer the explanation for the delay.
“SEVERE EXPLOSION IN FUEL TANK 6.
HELP! HELP! AGGH! (which is then followed by ten seconds of static).” The nice robot comes back on air. “We apologize for the delay. If your flight is to connect to the RFT
(short for Really Fast Travel) hub in Saturn, we will attempt to route you to
the hub on Pluto. If you are running
from someone or something other than law enforcement, please see the ticket
office for further assistance. If you
are a normal passenger, please see the ticket counter for a voucher for another
shuttle. Thank you for using Escape
Airlines!”
Stanley looks up, as if the
speakers are actually talking to him directly.
He stands up and shuffles over to the robotic attendant, his already tightened
jaw compressing in growing frustration.
I
have to get myself out of this, he thinks to himself. I can’t
let the alligators or the crocs win. Too
much is at stake.
The robotic attendant, an X-34
model created by Escape Airlines before the great Robot Revolution 20 years
ago, sees Stanley walk into its view. In
order to not make humans feel awkward next to the robots, the X-34 models were
created to look like gigantic yeti-like creatures, with shaggy black fur and
everything. Eight feet tall, sharpened
teeth and a menacing mug had the opposite reaction to what the designers had
intended.
Turns out, robot designers need to
get out once in a while and see the world.
Oh, and companies need to stop hiring insane designers who believe yetis
are some sort of status symbol to adhere to.
That would help as well.
“How can I help you, human?” the
robot growls, its animatronic mouth moving in non-realistic fashion as spittle
flies from its furry lips.
“Yes, my flight has been grounded,
and I need another ticket,” Stanley says, removing a touch of yeti spit from
his chin.
“What is your name, human?”
“Stanley Jenkins.”
The yeti robot’s comically large
eyebrows furrow in concentration. “Processing…PROCESSING!...Jenkins,
Stanley, ID # 444-555-7898, from Salt Lake City, Utah. If this is accurate, please say so.”
“That is correct”
“ERROR,” the yeti yells. “What is correct?”
“Your previous statement,” Stanley
says the frustration of the whole situation growing readily apparent in his
eyes.
“ERROR. The last statement this robot said was
‘ERROR.’ Please elaborate.”
“Okay, let’s forget it. Let’s just start over.”
“ERROR. Starting over is not possible with this
model. Starting over tends to cause a
rapid deceleration of this robot’s nuclear core, annihilating everything in a
three-block radius.”
“Go back to verifying who I am
then,” Stanley says wiping off another round of yeti spit.
“ERROR. This robot does not know
how you are.”
Stanley threw up his hands in
anger. “Piece of shit yetis!” he yells
as he kicks the yeti in what would be a yeti groin if yetis existed (which they
do, just not in this reality). Quick as
sound, a yeti arm thrusts out and snatches Stanley’s arm and pulls Stanley into
a vicious yeti hug.
“WARNING,” the yeti robot says,
spit flying fast and furious now, “Yeti
abuse is not allowed, and is considered a crime. This yeti is holding you because you committed
a violent act towards itself. You are
now being publicly berated as security is called. Shame on you!
Your mother must have raised you to be a criminal. Is your father in jail? You have no morals,” the yeti goes on giving
Stanley a tongue-lashing as Stanley looks around in surprise. Everyone is starting at him, judging him with
their eyes and snouts as he stands, struggling to breathe, caught in between
the vice-like furry appendages of the X-34 model.
To his
horror, in addition to the two rotund security guards turning the corner down
the causeway, a crocodile who was sitting a good distance away stands up on its
hind legs, its trench coat opening just enough to reveal some sort of weapon
attached to his long and scaly body. To
his right, an alligator wearing sweatpants and glasses puts down a virtual
newspaper and eyes him. The alligator
bares his teeth in surprise and happiness as he starts walking towards Stanley
as well, crawling on all fours in the alligator way.
Surrounded
by enemies on all sides. Two fat
security guards. A croc. An alligator. And to boot, locked in the arms of a stupid
yeti robot that can’t understand basic commands.
It is
doubtful that Stanley’s horoscope for today read that his plans would be
thwarted in such a way (his in fact reads, “You will deliver a gigantic pizza
oven to great gig on 7th east, you know the one with the happening
jive piano…If you are reading this, help me.
HELP ME!”). As he groans in pain,
waiting for his eventual death or arrest, he asks himself a question he has
asked himself again and again over the last year.
“How the
Hell did this happen?” he groans between spasms of pain. “I just wanted to
help,” he manages before the pain of a rib breaking nearly causes him to faint.
Indeed. How did it get to this point?
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