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Chapter 32: Living With Parkinson's?

Chapter 21: Electrofying
8.11.2002 Edited by Ben, every Sunday.

“Oooooooooooooooooooh……………..” moaned Bjorn, as the pent up urine of his massive chocolate milk-drinking finally overcame the steely resolve of his bladder. Though his bladder’s prowess was near legendary among his meeting-attending peers, famed near He simply couldn’t hold and any longer, and in the panic of discovering that Donald Trump was actually a robot sent back in time by McNohart to kill him, he just lost it.

“Now, Bjorn, I’m afraid that I must kill you in some rather amusing and colorful manner, and not by simply shooting you like any reasonable person should” Trump said, advancing slowly on a contorted–looking Bjorn. “Seeing as you seem to have eluded the overly-dramatic arena-combat death we had planned for you, I think I shall kill you by dipping you in some kind of acid on a slowly lowering platform… possibly a large bubbling vat of it. How does that grab you, Bjorn? The thought of the steamy piston, slowly hissing away as the pressure is relieved? The acid drip, drip, dripping below you, bubbling and churning… flowing and splashing…”

“Ooooooooooh...” was all the reply that Bjorn could manage, given his current state of urinary distress.

As the robotic version of Donald Trump slowly advanced on Bjorn, a small puddle began forming at Bjorn’s feet, slowly expanding outwards. The smell was pungent, immediately noticed by all of the occupants of the room having senses of smell. Absent from the list of beings possessing a sense of smell, however, was the robotic simacrulum of billionaire real estate magnate Donald Trump, who that very moment was stepping onto the widening puddle of sharp smelling fluid.

“And now, for the climactic cliché of my master plan….” began the evil killer robot, but before he could complete his sentence, his foot landed into the puddle at Bjorn’s feet.


“My… plan… what the heck? Oh, come on now…” the robot looked into Bjorn’s eyes. “That’s really gross. And right in the middle of my carpet, too. Y-you know h-h-h-how mmmm-m-m-m-much this costs t-t-t-t-to c-c-c-c-c-cccc-cc-c-c-cleannnnnn… *Bzzt crik crik bzzzzzzzzt*!”

Suddenly, having stepped its foot into the puddle of liquid at Bjorn’s feet, electrical pulses began to shake the robot back and forth. It jerked and heaved, and smoke started to pour out of its ears. Lightning crackled along its skin, which was already beginning to melt and burn. Then, all of a sudden, the robotic version of Donald Trump stood straight up at attention, and its head exploded.

“Beeeeeeeeooooo…” a synthetic tone hummed from the robot.

Jesus stared at the scene, blinking her doe-eyes in disbelief. “He blew up…” was all she could manage to blurt out.

“Yeah, I guess he did.” Bjorn replied, trying to act nonchalant about just having destroyed an evil killer robot, sent back through time to kill him, by using a puddle of lukewarm urine. So far, he was succeeding remarkably well.

“I’m beginning to be a little disappointed by our friend McNohart’s robot-building abilities. I mean, being vulnerable to lightning bolts is one thing, but who would bother making a robot that would blow up if it took a wrong step after a rainstorm?” Bjorn commented, suddenly being struck by the absurdity of his escape.

“It does all seem a little ‘Bugs Bunny and Road Runner’-ish, now that you mention it.” replied Jesus. Not that she would know who Bugs Bunny and Road Runner were, her being from ancient Babylon, but it seemed like the right thing to say at the time.

“If McNohart’s robots are already waiting for us in this timeline, we’d better find some place safe to hide out for a while. If only I had enough money to afford one of those swanky New York Hotels like I saw in that movie about that kid in lost in New York…”

Jesus was already stooped over the remains of Donald Trump. Well, this robot thing doesn’t seem to have any gold on him only these little green pieces of paper that say “Loo” on them.

“Loo?” thought Bjorn. Then he realized the culture gap that wasn’t quite being bridged just then. “Jesus! Those are hundred dollar bills!”

“You know, you don’t have to sound so mad when you say my name…”

“Uh, sorry Jesus… I tend to say that when I get excited…”

“You’re sure we’ve never met? Because a lot of my clients have a tendency to do the same thing.”

“What was it you do again? Come to think of it, never mind. Just give me those bills, and I can get us a place to sleep tonight.”

Bjorn and Jesus exited the building, moving as nonchalantly as a man with pee-stained pants and a woman in a revealing red dress can hope to. Which in New York, it turns out, is nonchalantly enough for no one to notice at all.

“We need to find a building to stay in,” thought Bjorn, but going to a hotel would be too obvious. He had to be smart, and go somewhere that no one could possibly foresee.

“I know!” he thought to himself. “Follow me Jesus!” he thought again. Not realizing she hadn’t heard him, he looked back at her, puzzled as to why she was just standing there. “Umm… follow me, Jesus…” he said aloud, finally realizing his mistake.

Bjorn and Jesus boarded the subway train. “I know just the place where no evil robots will think too look for us.” he explained to Jesus. “But first, I’d like to see a newspaper.”

Bjorn found a “New York Times” machine and dutifully paid the listed price for his newspaper.

The date read, “September 10th, 2001”.

“Here’s our stop!” said Bjorn, exiting the subway underneath the World Trade Centre.

By Pat Snider

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