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On Monday morning, the cardboard box arrived.
“What the hell is in here?!” exclaimed the delivery guy, hauling the load up towards the third floor of the apartment complex.
“Uhh…” hesitated the recipient, “a new lamp,” he decided.
“Must be some designer one if it’s this fucking heavy.”
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The door slammed shut, sending trembling vibrations through the walls of Flat 78.
Paying no heed to the reverberating shivers, the man sat entranced, eyes glued to the exterior of the box. Despite its contents, the brown lump appeared suspiciously normal.
“Clink.”
The letter opener now lay unmoving atop a slippery sea of sandalwood.
Holding his breath, our apprehensive protagonist manoeuvred the flimsy flaps to face outwards.
Big brown eyes stared out from the depths of the container. Bony and majestic, a lone protrusion extended along the midline of her visor. The point of culmination was the tip of a delicate nozzle. Below this unusually evenly placed projection, a set of round arches were carefully separated by an immaculately placed cupids bow. Angular cheekbones existed with the purpose of framing this angelic arrangement.
The robot’s beauty was unreal, but still somehow believably so. She was a physical manifestation of an Instagram Fitness Influencer, extracted unwillingly from a retouched photo and sentenced to sleep surrounded by the soggy cardboard.
The combination of the over-engineered website as well as the moral dilemma that came with the idea of designing his own woman had rendered the resident of Flat 78 completely incapable of checking the fateful boxes of design. It was therefore the statics underlying his profile that had been employed as the blueprint for this robotess.
Utterly perplexed, the purchaser ran his trembling fingers along her tan skin. It was plump and soft, just like the outside of a newborn peach. The company had been careful to include each aspect of the accompanying details. Most surprising of these were the individual hair socket scattered along the skin, slipped into each and every mountain and valley of her robotic exterior. In addition, the man’s glimmering globes did not fail to note the carefully placed arrangement of moles residing on her right shoulder.
Suspicion began to inch slowly upwards on the ladder of inference perched against the parliament of his mind, momentarily reaching an apex of action.
He brought his left ear to meet her chest.
Thankfully, there was nothing to be heard other than the swarms of silence already crowding all the available seating spots of the dwelling.
A warm sigh of relief was expelled from his depths.
“You know you’re in 2019 when robots look more like hot chicks than real hot chicks,” he thought.
Having another cheeky glance, he ogled the goods. A strong physical urge began to well uncomfortably in his lower half.
“Hmm…. Steven never comes back before seven on Thursdays,” he thought whilst taking a peek a quick peek at his temporal instrument.
It was now time to locate the ‘ON‘ button.
“Lets see, it should be here somewhere,” he whispered.
Failing to find the object of inquest anywhere oblivious, the man proceeded to check the small spots.
He first searched between her fingers and toes, then at nape of her neck. Tilting her head back slightly allowed him to obtain a more reasonable perspective of the bumpy interior of her olfactory apparatus.
As the search continued, bubbles of frustration emerged and boiled violently upwards from the level of his entrails.
There, on the underside of her upper left appendage, a minuscule metallic segment.
It read:
‘Hollow like a measuring cup,
accommodating milky nectar.
POUR HERE’
The combustible vesicle of frustration that had just managed to find its way up into his mental apparatus popped, flooding the interior of the narrow passageway leading from conception towards cognition. Said slippery cover of agitated energy now coated his internal workings.
“What kind of fucking poetry bullshit is this, I just wanna find where I can…”
He had spoken too soon.
Just there, hidden conveniently underneath the little label: the control panel!
Elated, the man punched the green button at the centre of the display.
Her beautiful lips drew apart and each muscles and vein was at once doled with the elixir of existence.
And oh, how could it be? It seemed to the resident of Flat 78 as if this automated babe had somehow managed to inhale a tiny sip of air.
One limb after the other, she clambered out her casket. She was soon stood stark naked against the afternoon sun, obscuring her owner’s line of sight.
“Hello Sir. What would you like me to do for you today? I can show you a selection of different settings that are popular among users…” she began.
The man walked over, glanced at the control panel and switched off the ‘SPEECH‘ feature.
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As the days turned to weeks, the tenant of Flat 78 became increasingly accustomed to ‘spending time’ with his new favourite appliance.
“It’s just like having a real girlfriend minus all the work. I can’t believe anyone bothers with Tinder anymore,” he reflected.
While the mechanics of the situation were overall quite uncomplicated, there was one major issue: Steven, the second inhabitant of Flat 78, was to remain in the dark.
The primary meeting of the cohabiting companions had occurred during Freshers Week in 2016. Way back then, the two had stood side by side on the soaking curb, observing as a small stream of putrid liquid spewed violently and simultaneously from their top halves. The bond of brotherhood forged by this gruesome happening had somehow joined the young men in heart and soul.
But our better known flatmate was not only withholding the details of his new affair due to its strange and futuristic nature. No, his incredible secrecy also stemmed from the void of dissimilarity between the lifestyles of the fellows who shared the four walls. While the main organism of focus in our story was notorious for his breadth and brevity of female affairs, his flatmate Steven was one with an increasingly clear line of focus in the romantic domain. Now equipped with this knowledge, the reader may be unsurprised to find that Steven had been seeing his own completely non-robotic girlfriend since the pre-Uni era.
The issue posed by this situation for our newfound gadget owner was one of pride. Indeed, our main character vehemently claimed himself to be living his best single life and felt that revealing the existence of an automated companion would be akin to admitting defeat. No, the man could never confess that he unfailingly cried himself to sleep every time one of his conquests had managed to slip back into their apparel and to escape from his untidy lair.
So perhaps it was not just the sheer number of hours that the man was dedicating to the robot, but also the fact that he had to keep their relations tightly under wraps that made her so incredibly enticing.
Though the man had trouble accepting it, the robotess had begun taking up more and more capacity within the bounds of his cortical circuitry. He often daydreamed of how her body felt, focusing particularly on the intricacies of the delicate and well-designed facial expressions programmed to appear amidst the act. The man had even begun to long for her sweet and sickly scent – it seemed that the engineers at her department of conception had yet to figure out how to make this feature entirely user friendly.
It followed then, that about two or so weeks after this fateful acquisition, an irrevocable transformative occurrence took place. Intoxicated and having quickly concluded his business following a Tuesday night poker session, the mistakeful male had kept her lying in bed beside him. The makeshift couple had slept in a proximity of fakery under the man’s patterned duvet.
This would have been fine if it had been a one-time thing. But no, the appeal of the comfort was too magnetically forceful to be resisted by the cold and single soul hidden beneath the man’s fuck-boy demeanour. The most integral and important after effect of the event described above was therefore an irreversible transformation in our protagonist’s nightly ritual.
The usual trajectory of events occurred as follows…First, he would unveil her… Next, he would undress himself…Then, he would …uhh… go about his usual sequence of doings…And finally, he would configure her spine into the shape of a spoon, bringing it to cradle his soft innards. His favourite moment of all was the process of encasing her into his bounds by means of a limp arm flung across her unflinching figure.
On one particular morning following one of the nights of closeness described above, the man awoke to a cool breeze playing at the tops of his toes.
In the same way as the red fiery orb that had risen hours before to decorate the urban skyline, a realisation dawned within his device of reason. It took less than a second for this understanding to make its way up to the top-most point of his conscious understanding.
The man had always been levelheaded when it came to the female persuasion. But this? This was different. The most unsettling bit of all was his inability to place the feeling within one of his personal compartments constructed on the basis of years of experience.
Was it guilt? Was it shame? He decided that it could be one of these, or some unfamiliar combination of both.
The man promised himself that he would stop, that he would make a genuine effort to meet a sweet, veritable, blood-pumping valentine of his own kind. It would definitely be difficult, but he would force himself to refrain from informing the unnamed that her time with the self-proclaimed Sex God had reached its terminal station. More importantly, he would also refrain from moving on to the next two legged with (preferably) more impressive feminine additions.
It was then that the machine found her voice:
” ‘What would your good do if evil didn’t exist, and what would earth look like if all the shadows disappeared?’ “
He was at a loss. The man always made sure to keep the light of the ‘SPEECH‘ feature firmly on red.
“Where did you learn that?!” cried the mystified.
” ‘The Master and Margarita‘ by Mikhail Bulgakov. It’s on your bedside table,” answered the machine haughtily, as if this should have been completely oblivious even to an imbecile.
“What? But…” the couldn’t even figure out how to begin to respond. It was true, he recalled the cover of red and white decorated with the dark smudge of a cat.
The man had actually received the object as a gift from his mother. At the instance of its reception, he had gathered it to have been gifted against the backdrop of her growing concern over his lack of effort and academic vigour during his time at higher education. It was not much to ask to ameliorate this setting by grabbing the pages and by keeping them untouched on his bedside.
Despite his failure to indulge in its contents, the unattached and uncared for privately found the paperback to be an invaluable tool, really a magical emblem of sorts allowing him to fend off the ghost of loneliness that often visited in times of unease and boredom.
Turning back to the confusion, our troubled hero struggled to think up a witty remark to throw off his metallic side-piece. He quickly concluded that his best bet would be to feign confidence:
“I didn’t know you could read,” he inquired.
“Yes, I have always been able to, but I did not have the occasion before I found your book. I have only been able to process approximately half of the text and must admit I do not completely fully understand it all. Nevertheless, I am drawn to the idea of the of the muddy intersection between truth and religion and am curious to uncover the means by which individuals have come to reflect on such complex ideas in this particular context of intellectual repression,” answered the robot.
“I think I might need to be on some of that shit my grandma takes,” was the first coherent train of consciousness formed by the single audience member having had the pleasure of perceiving this utterance in person.
“Could you please be so kind as to grant me access to somewhere I could go to learn more about this God they speak of. I have already used your ‘Macbook’ to explore some thoughts of mine on the Interweb, but I would like to…” she started.
“You’re a sex-robot! You’re not supposed to have a brain!” he cried.
Parallel to the execution of the motor-plan of this remark, a thought burst free from the undercurrent on the man’s stream of consciousness, surpassing the slippery sea of frustration that had recently been cleared from the major lanes of his brain.
Now he understood!
In all likelihood, there was probably just a fault in this particular specimen.
Yes, that was it!
All he had to do was to turn her off and send her back to the lab where she had come from in the first place.
He took a step closer.
The masked machine took a step back, her nude form quivering ever so slightly.
“I need to turn you off, for your own safety,” he said softly.
Her face was expressionless and unresponsively blank.
The disconcerted lunged after the sexy, making for her left. She drew stealthily back.
They drew nearer, then further once more. They were dancing, elegantly responding to each other’s needs and demands like fighters in a ring.
In the midst of an episode of retreat, the robot’s mechanical peripheral failed her.
And oh, her metallic leg caught onto the flimsy chairs underlying the kitchen table.
She fell backwards.
Arms outstretched, the robot was hit by an accumulation of flesh and bone. What a violent collision!
The current composition of the duo was a far cry from their loving entwinement of the morning.
The man trapped her between himself and the shiny floorboards. Robetess was now twisted into an odd contortion and he could just about reach…
Fingers wide, the desperate manoeuvred his flapper to contact the red button. Getting ready to pull the trigger, his conscience stopped him in his tracks.
What would life be like if he turned her off, if he returned her?
The man felt a pang in his stomach, a powerful pain that forged a cavern of hollow emptiness at the epicentre of his emotional indentation.
It wasn’t really just the daunting emotional prospect that arrested him in his actions, but also the realisation that a replacement just wouldn’t do.
She was his robot.
He wanted her to be his forever.
As the man loosened his grip, he tumbled absently towards the surface beneath their feet. The tables had turned. It was now him who faced the humiliation of being a discarded trinket, borne down into submission by the power of unfeeling.
Both man and robot lay in silent intimacy, hoarding both air and energy.
The metaphorical measuring cup was the first to collect what she needed. As she initiated her preparation for the next foreseeable phase of the skirmish, the man of Flat 78 interrupted her with an important announcement.
“I think I love you,” he confessed, “I’m in love with a fucking robot,” he continued, hot tears welling over and left to drip along his front.
Without a word, the seductive compilation of gears rose from the floor and subsequently turned her back to the amorous gentleman.
To the absolute and utter dismay of the newly infatuated, his beloved hopped onto the exterior of his patterned duvet. Swivelling her legs around to cross over eachother, she flipped open his laptop. In a flash, her agile fingers became familiar with the keys.
“Tap, tap, tap, tap, tap, tap…”…and….
A famous guitar riff echoed against the white walls.
“DUN DUN DUN DUDU DUDU DUDU DUU, DUN DUN DUN DUDU DUDU DUDU DUU“
“Is that…” he began, faltering in the face of the stark detection that had taken him over.
Mortal and other now sensed the fully formed spirit of Ozzy making a strange and uncomfortable appearance in the flat.
“Listen, ” she said, closing her eyes and bopping her head along with the music. Her long hair flailed wildly with more incredible unstoppable energy than the world had ever seen in response to the music. In another time and in another place, the sex-bot would without a doubt have been asked to feature as the star of the music video for this song.
” ‘Happiness I cannot feel and love to me is so unreal,’ ” sang the voice.
The mechanical mistress paused the track and glanced back over at her proprietor. A smug look twisted the edges of the symmetrical wonder that was her face.
“Ok, this shit is really getting out of hand now,” concluded he, using all his remaining might to rack his thinking thing for a solution.
In a moment of pure desperation, the man reached for the letter-opener he had once sentenced to inhabit this area of floor.
His robot beat him to it. Blue plastic now wrapped tightly in her grip, she spun the blade expertly to face away from herself. Without a moment of hesitation, she stuck it deep into his left sternum, twisting powerfully.
He gasped for air.
“But,” he strained, “Asimov’s Laws…Asimov’s Laws of Robotics…”
In response and oblivious denial of this legendary framework, feminine fingers obtained a stronger hold of the handle and thrust it deeper into him.
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The bus was crowded. Our focus is now turned to two overcharged and obnoxious kiddos that had been for some unknown reason been unleashed to cause mayhem in this cramped vehicle.
“Mom are we there yet,” asked the first.
“No baby, just wait. You’re gonna love it, it’s one of the most important historical and religious cities in the whole world,” replied the birther.
As always, mother’s attempts at pacification were to no avail.
“But I hate history! ‘Its soooo boring!” whined the overfed cherub.
A mysterious lady sitting beside the horrible brat turned to face the rest of his unfortunate family.
“If you believe you will be unamused and lacking in entertainment during the course of your journey, I recommend you read this,” she announced, dropping a torn copy of ‘The Master and Margarita‘ into his lap.
Not a single soul in these surroundings was brave enough to question the strange authority possessed by this dark dame. The rebellious youth immediately pretended to burry his head into the pages of the donation.
Seeing her son finally enthralled in an appropriately educational activity, the mother glanced gratefully at the computerised.
“THANK YOU,” she mouthed.
Mama then proceeded to replug her wireless headphones and to return her gaze to the cheerleading drama unfolding on her handheld device.
For some unknown reason, the younger girl-child didn’t seem as phased by the chilly demeanour of the anonymous vixen.
“Are those chips? Can I have one?” queried the ponytailed youth.
“No, what I am currently consuming is in fact a lesser known delicacy. Each part actually comprises bits of roast heart,” replied the woman.
“Like pigs heart?” asked the adolescent, “I guess I could try some if it tastes really good…”
The beautiful lady took a sip of her apricot juice and swallowed slowly.
“No, I can tell you it is not pigs heart. However, I am quite certain that your mother would not like it very much if I let you try any,” she said with a grin, lifting another red bit of burnt crisp to meet her perfect lips.
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WAST WRTNG 