Monday, August 11, 2008

Blockade Boy, Robot Fighter

My weekend was okay. Until I had to fight the giant robot.

On Saturday, I moved into this sweet cave way up in the side of a cliff. It's high up enough that I'm afforded a wonderful view of the Citadel of Doom. And yet, it's not so high up that it makes me tired to climb up to it while holding a bunch of "liberated" hotel swag, bound up in the hide of a Lesser Gurn (as is my wont).

And oh, what swag they got over at the Citadel of Doom! In my charming, care-free, breaking-and-entering style, I've "acquired" something like eighty assorted monogrammed towels (made of the finest, fluffiest Winathian cotton); a way-cool chef's hat; some silk drapes that I think I could make into a kick-ass waistcoat or smoking jacket; thirty-two bottles of Chateau Femnaz Sauvignon; and an ice sculpture in the shape of a hot naked dude (and I licked that fucker down to a nub.)

Saturday night, I almost swiped one of those complimentary Orandoan mints that they leave on everybody's pillows -- y'know those mints, the ones that are the size of an armoire? Yeah. Those things are the best. Well, I'd just about made it through the window with that thing on my back, when suddenly I heard a small sound, like the coo of a dove. I turned around, and there was a little Xennian girl. Her round, lidless eyes were wet with tears, and she wailed, "Sasquatch, why? Why are you taking my complimentary mint, why?"

"I ain't Sasquatch, honey," I sighed, and I hoisted the damn thing back onto her bed. Then, with my best coyote yelp, I jumped out the window.

The Citadel of Doom's manager sent the giant robot after me the very next morning.

Not that he knew exactly who I was or where I was, but he'd equipped the thing with some kind of vague, hominid-sensing tracking system. I remember watching the robot leave the hotel, while I thought, "Huh, I wonder where that thing's going," and then as it got closer and closer to me, I was like, "Aw, shit."

I let the robot chase me for a while, until I could lure it into a narrow canyon. Then I scampered up the side and started a rockslide, trapping it. From there, it was a simple matter to jump down towards it, turn myself into a steel wall in mid air, and repeatedly clobber the holy bejeebus out of it. The only bad part? I had to do it about six hundred times before the robot was destroyed. I could have spent Sunday napping and eating and planning how I was going to swipe more stuff from the Citadel of Doom, but no. And now my muscles feel like they're being flame-roasted, from all the climbing.

I'm looking out at the Citadel of Doom, now. That big holo-projector they have in the roof is showing an advertisement for something called "Space Movie." Poppin' planets! It looks like it's another one of those stupid Lallorwood holo-films that pretty much just duplicate scenes from other movies (with added fart jokes). And apparently, the "galactic premiere" is happening at the Citadel of Doom!

Oh, it is fucking on, motherfuckers.

8 comments:

Jon the Intergalactic Gladiator said...

When you say "chef's hat" do you mean that you're running around pantsless with your boxers on your head or do you mean chef's hat that a real actual chef would wear while cheffing?

Bill S. said...

Holy cow, BB is going to be bring down the wrath of Space Gods upon the premiere of a Movie Movie! If only it were in our dimension!

LurkerWithout said...

What Bill S said. Sweet gods of funk do I hate those stupid movies, the slack-jawed fools who "write" them and the studios that release them to make a quick book of the idiot teen boys who watch them. Who I also hate. Bastards...

Dean said...

Nice to see that you're getting into the rugged outdoorsy lifestyle, BB. Look on the bright side- the Citadel's manager will probably send an even bigger, deadlier robot after you now, one that breathes fire, or something. Won't that be fun?

Blockade Boy said...

Jon: I mean an actual cooking chef's hat. I don't wear boxers(anywhere on my person).

Bill S.: I'm afraid my tomfoolery is too potent for your dainty dimension! Er, no offense.

Lurker: I think you've hit on something: the audience is the problem! There needs to be an educational campaign, perhaps in the public schools. Something along the lines of "Friends don't let friends watch Movie Movies."

Dean: What are you, a giant robot salesman? Peddle your wares elsewhere! (Um, but plain ol' non-selling commenting is still greatly appreciated... pal!)

Bill S. said...

I think the education campaign would be, you know, education. MAKE THE BASTARDS SMARTER! And then we can live in a world where wit will reign supreme, and Oscar Wilde, Noel Coward, and Joe Orton would all be venerated over Dane Cook (blech!).

I dream big.

MaGnUs said...

Hey, wasn't I the robot fighter?

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