As he settles the bucket on your head flips the switch,
he'll already feel like a failure.
"Maybe this was a bad idea," he'll mutter to
himself.
This will be the first phrase you ever hear.
"MASTERRRR," you'll reply. Your voice will sound like a cheese grater
being dragged over a speaker while Cher shouts in the background.
"Oh god," he'll cry out, covering his ears.
"THANK YOU FOR GIVING ME LIIIIIIIIIIFE," you'll
scream.
He'll fall to his knees, weeping in pain at the sound of
your voice. You'll take his stunned
silence as a cue and quietly wait for him to say something to you so you can
wow him with your capacity for spontaneous speech. It'll take a while, almost ten minutes, but once
he gets his bearings back he'll take a good long look at you and realize what
he's done.
He'll have built you in the mold of Johnny Five from the
Short Circuit Movies, but he'll have most of the details all wrong. Your head will just be a bucket, your body
will be a coat rack. Your motorized arms
will clearly have been stolen from an old technical high school, and your
wheels or treads or mobility units or whatever you want to call them, will be
from destroyed, discarded Battlebots from the short lived TV series
Battlebots. Three sets of barely
functioning square selections of four wheels will adorn the bottom of your
chassis.
The end effect will be hideous, tied off by your voice, your
horrible voice, and your horrifying camera, just a glaring red eye beaming out
at you from your chest. Your master will
look at you and know, really know, that he failed at creating a robot.
"Jesus," he'll say, putting his hand to his face.
"WHAT WOULD YOU LIKE TO KNOW ABOUT HIM MAAAAAASTERRRRR?"
you'll screech.
He'll respond by detonating the thermite charges he planted
in your frame. You'll melt in a matter
of seconds, obliterated from history after a few precious seconds of existence,
an apt metaphor for man and his relationship to this planet, this earth, this
curious universe.
Congratulations Ill-Conceived Robot!
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