The Terracorp Chronicles

The Robotto Chain Saw Massacre

“What will make the final corporate merger with Commucorp a reality?” asked Grodin Pudge to his wide-eyed audience. “You, my fellow Gigacorpians! Perhaps you have asked yourself, ‘Why am I here? What is the meaning of life? Where are we headed?’ Well, the answer is in Gigacorp and the Absolute Doctrine of Corporate Behavior. Why are you here? Why? Because we like you! What is the meaning of life? To play a duke and make a nuke. To spend a buck and press your luck. That is the meaning of life. And as to where we are headed…”

“Not so fast! Not so fast, Pudge!” shouted a voice from the audience.

“Who said that?” Pudge squinted through the television lights as armed Compols surrounded the disrupter.

“I did!” said the man, holding a small box with a button and antenna held at arm’s length. “Tell these stinking Compols to stand back or this auditorium goes up in a mushroom cloud. I have an armed thermonuclear warhead strapped to my body. One false move out of anybody and I detonate it!”

The man rose slowly from his seat as the Compols cautiously retreated. Moving to an isle, the man cautiously looked around him and proceeded unhindered toward the rostrum, his thumb still resting on the detonator button.

Pudge stepped back as the man approached and asked, “Who are you? What is the meaning of this outburst of insanity?”

“Shut up, Pudge! We are in control now! We have all of your weapons and most importantly we have added a special Control-Y trap handler to electronic mail on WOTAN!”

“What does that mean?” asked Pudge, a bit perplexed by the technical aspects of the conversation.

“We can read the mail you didn’t intend to sand!” replied the man as a gasp of horror went through the audience.

“He’s an F.E., Grody!” yelled Elliott Quik. “Don’t push him! Let me talk to him, maybe I can deal with him.”

“Very well.” Pudge signalled a Compol to unchain Eillott, George Frankenstein, and Heckler Bemoanus from their chairs. Elliott rose and slowly approached the thermonuclear-warhead-toting F.E..

“Perhaps you had a strange childhood. When did you start hating your mother?” Elliott tried to reason with the man.

“Forget it, Quik! You and I took Psychology l0l together at Giga U. I know all the tricks in the book. Now if everyone will just sit down, I have speech of my own to recite.”

“Psych 101 at Giga U.?” replied Elliott. “Then you must be…”

“That’s right! I’m Buck Wheat.”

“Have the techs put the portable hyper-space transponders in place, Ensign Marshmellow?” asked Adniral Bozoni, viewing data on the screens of the Captain’s console on the bridge of the rescue cutter Cosmic Partner.

Ensign Marshmellow saluted the Admiral and replied, “Almost, sir. The fourth quadrant transponder is drifting. It is being stabilized even as we speak.”

“Good, they must be accurately placed to generate a proper time-space circumferential field, especially since we are so close to the gravitational influence of Neptune. Lot me know when we are ready.”

“Aye-aye, Admiral!”

Mr. Robotto placed his chain saw hand modules back into their storage compartments and focused his CCD arrays on the mounds of dead tyrannosaurus carcasses littering the marshland and turning the swamp water a deep burgundy. Directing the inboard-motors on his foot-tractor floatation-pontoons, he glided through the maze of dinosaur meat until he arrived at his first victim. Through a large slit in its stomach emerged a person, bleached by stomach acid. She turned to the robot and cried out, “Senor Robotto! You have rescued me!”

“Piddee dah foos! I makin’ shoes outta dees lizards! Buncha wimps! Sukkas betta not mess wit Mr. R!” spoke the automaton.

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