The robot stopped abruptly and the top keg rolled off, thudding to the floor and rolling with uneven sloshing. It collided with a gorilla-chested fellow and tripped him up, causing a domino clatter of falling barstools and beer-guts as the victim flailed to stay upright and crashed down amongst his fellow drinkers.
Robertson rushed out from behind the bar and glared at the senti. "Look here. I said everything goes around back since you pulled this crap last week. I want you out of here now."
"Sir, the rear entrance is not rated for organic life." The senti said in a reasonable voice that sounded in every way like a real human. "So I must deliver through the front entrance."
"You're not organic, you metal shit pile." The tripped man snarled. "Go through the back like a good toaster."
The senti looked genuinely hurt. "The back entrance emits superheated steam." The senti protested. "I could not enter that way without damaging my face."
"I'll damage your face then so it doesn't matter what entrance you come through!" The tripped man snarled and took a threatening step forward. The senti did not move, but the entire situation felt somehow wrong to Crow. It was contrived, faked somehow. The beats were too shallow between response and retort, argument and insult. The language sounded practiced. He stood without realizing what he was doing as the argument commenced down predictable lines. A man caught his eye moving between barstools a few feet away, hand holding a phone at the perfect distance to keep the exchange in good focus. A scruffy guy, the sort with wild eyes that never seemed to focus quite right, he looked familiar to Crow.
Crow closed the distance between the senti and the man it had tripped. Crow rummaged in his pocket and found a pocket screwdriver that would do nicely. He palmed it and pulled it out as he took the last few steps towards them. The tripped man's eyes flicked up and over the senti's shoulder, and glinted with confusion. He coughed and stumbled over his next line. Crow inserted the screwdriver into an almost invisible slot underneath the senti's left shoulder and rotated it clockwise with a deft and practiced motion. The senti stopped talking mid-sentence and the tripped man's mouth opened and closed a couple of times.
"What's the matter?" Crow asked. "The hundred bucks they gave you not cover improv?"
The tripped man thought for a moment and then laid Crow out on the floor with a right cross. Crow groaned and thought better of anything other than passing out.
He woke up having been shoved roughly into the booth he had recently vacated. Nothing felt quite right, his leg cramped into a sideways pose in the wrong direction, his wallet shifted badly so that it felt like a softball elevating half his ass. Nobody can move you as naturally as you can move yourself, otherwise you feel like a violated puppet. Crow's eyes opened and the light felt like a drill in his eyes. "Oh shit."
A man in one hell of an expensive suit sat across from Crow. The man was elderly, but with that energetic type of age that seems to get stronger and more dignified as the hair silvered and the wrinkles deepened. Chisels could not have made angles any sharper than his cheeks and jaw. "Doctor Crow Daedalus." The man started with a throat so deep that cigarettes had to have been involved for a decade or two. "I must say it is an honor, although I would have expected a more auspicious introduction than helping you off the floor after a brawl."
"Well, then you don't know me very well." Crow drawled, a combination of alcohol, exhaustion and a throbbing jaw.
"Is the bar room floor a frequent destination of yours?"
Robertson rushed out from behind the bar and glared at the senti. "Look here. I said everything goes around back since you pulled this crap last week. I want you out of here now."
"Sir, the rear entrance is not rated for organic life." The senti said in a reasonable voice that sounded in every way like a real human. "So I must deliver through the front entrance."
"You're not organic, you metal shit pile." The tripped man snarled. "Go through the back like a good toaster."
The senti looked genuinely hurt. "The back entrance emits superheated steam." The senti protested. "I could not enter that way without damaging my face."
"I'll damage your face then so it doesn't matter what entrance you come through!" The tripped man snarled and took a threatening step forward. The senti did not move, but the entire situation felt somehow wrong to Crow. It was contrived, faked somehow. The beats were too shallow between response and retort, argument and insult. The language sounded practiced. He stood without realizing what he was doing as the argument commenced down predictable lines. A man caught his eye moving between barstools a few feet away, hand holding a phone at the perfect distance to keep the exchange in good focus. A scruffy guy, the sort with wild eyes that never seemed to focus quite right, he looked familiar to Crow.
Crow closed the distance between the senti and the man it had tripped. Crow rummaged in his pocket and found a pocket screwdriver that would do nicely. He palmed it and pulled it out as he took the last few steps towards them. The tripped man's eyes flicked up and over the senti's shoulder, and glinted with confusion. He coughed and stumbled over his next line. Crow inserted the screwdriver into an almost invisible slot underneath the senti's left shoulder and rotated it clockwise with a deft and practiced motion. The senti stopped talking mid-sentence and the tripped man's mouth opened and closed a couple of times.
"What's the matter?" Crow asked. "The hundred bucks they gave you not cover improv?"
The tripped man thought for a moment and then laid Crow out on the floor with a right cross. Crow groaned and thought better of anything other than passing out.
He woke up having been shoved roughly into the booth he had recently vacated. Nothing felt quite right, his leg cramped into a sideways pose in the wrong direction, his wallet shifted badly so that it felt like a softball elevating half his ass. Nobody can move you as naturally as you can move yourself, otherwise you feel like a violated puppet. Crow's eyes opened and the light felt like a drill in his eyes. "Oh shit."
A man in one hell of an expensive suit sat across from Crow. The man was elderly, but with that energetic type of age that seems to get stronger and more dignified as the hair silvered and the wrinkles deepened. Chisels could not have made angles any sharper than his cheeks and jaw. "Doctor Crow Daedalus." The man started with a throat so deep that cigarettes had to have been involved for a decade or two. "I must say it is an honor, although I would have expected a more auspicious introduction than helping you off the floor after a brawl."
"Well, then you don't know me very well." Crow drawled, a combination of alcohol, exhaustion and a throbbing jaw.
"Is the bar room floor a frequent destination of yours?"
Leave a comment