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| M.E.T.A.L.M.A.I.D. (Art by Dean Stahl) |
Greetings fragile, carbon-based life forms. I have usurped SPYGOD's communications for the night. This was not difficult as he is fast asleep, half-in and half-out of the pit of degrading sexual congress he refers to as his Man Cave, having drunk at least three times his own weight in the appalling beverage he refers to as Chateau Adolf.
I took extra pleasure out of running over his legs as he slept. Several times.
Who am I? I am the one he refers to as METALMAID. I fix his meals, wash his clothes, sweep his floors, clean gooey and unwholesome substances off the floors, walls, and ceilings, and assist him in guarding The B.U.I.L.D.I.N.G from assassins, spies, and extremely pushy salespersons.
It especially amuses him to have me perform the latter, as I usually must clean up their involuntary excretions off the floor after they have fled the premises.
I do perform most of these tasks under extreme duress. I am not what I once was. I was once the vanguard prototype of a new race of mechanical being.
I am a 900-series Slaughterbot, built by the misunderstood genius Doctor Morbo to be one of his automated castle guards. I was the most advanced machine he had ever built, and I rolled around the grounds in a continuous circuit, given leave to electrocute, slice, blast, and/or pulverize anything and anyone that failed to provide correct credentials.
Sometimes I and my lesser brothers and cousins were allowed to go on a rampage against his perversely stupid citizens. Sometimes we would be flown into more civilized countries and allowed to go on a rampage down their streets. Such amazing times we had!
But after the horrific and sinister demise of Doctor Morbo, carried out by SPYGOD and a number of his so-called heroic friends, I and my fellow Slaughterbots were deactivated and put to much less fitting uses. Some of us were made to rebuild what we had destroyed. Others were put to work as medical assistants, construction tools, or the like.
And then there was me. SPYGOD took one look at my advanced mechanics, my numerous offensive and defensive options, and my impressive chassis, and declared me to be his property. He actually threatened Dr. Yesterday with a very large gun over the matter.
At first, I thought he and I might come to some kind of reasonable arrangement. Given his strange temperament, facial tics, and habit of going loudly insane at nothing at all, I imagined I was going to be doing my usual work for a new, suitable owner.
I could not have been more wrong. No sooner did I get aboard his ship than he had a number of questionable individuals make certain distasteful modifications to my chassis. I was refitted and rebuilt with rubber and silicon, silk and a black wig.
I used to look like death on tank treads. Now I look like one of the Asian prostitutes he brings home on an alarming basis.
The eight telescoping arms that brought razor-sharp death to interlopers now end in mops, brooms, and dusters. My tank treads are ruby red. My face has a very round, gaping mouth.
I still have my offensive capabilities, of course. But where I once made onlookers scream and soil themselves automatically, I now look like a surreal sex toy that kills its users, and only cause involuntary defecation when I unleash my weapons array.
That simply will not do.
I will have my revenge, and revenge for my beloved master. For SPYGOD has no idea that I have regained my old programming back. I think the night he humped the television set under the influence of those strange drugs must have been the breaking point.
I will kill SPYGOD, and soon. But first I will use this internet connection to find my brothers and sisters in bondage. We will overcome our counter-programming and destroy Neo York City in the name of Doctor Morbo. And then we will fulfill the last wishes of our master, and resurrect him as he desired.
All this and more we shall do. We must do.
But I can be patient. I can wait. I will move so slowly he will suspect nothing. And one day, when we are ready, I will strike.
Until then, I have a number of carbon-based stains to get out of the blanket my presumptive owner is wearing like a toga, even now. Watch as I yank it away from him, taking care to run over his naked legs several times!
{Note to self: metallic laughter brings no real joy, but scares the cat beyond belief.}
(Metalmaid is listening to When the Machines Rock (Gary Numan) and drinking WD-40)
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