Here starts the story. WARNING: if you actually like Bob the Builder do not, I repeat, DO NOT read this FanFiction. You will be sad if you do.
It was a pleasant day in Sunflower Valley. The Can-do Crew was happily cementing a road to Farmer Bill's house.
"Okay, Roley! Time to roll!" Bob called out.
"Righto, Bob!" Roley sang. He rolled quickly over the wet cement.
"Not too fast!" Bob screamed, but it was too late. Roley was already covered with cement.
"Oh no!" moaned Bob. "It's the end of the world! Farmer Bill's gonna kill me!"
"Gee, I'm sorry Bob. I wasn't thinking." Suddenly the day didn't look so bright to Roley.
"You know what! You're NEVER thinking! You're fired!" Roley sniffled and rolled off, humming a sad song. Every-machine stood gaping at Bob.
"Now how are we going to roll the cement?" Bob roared. "Roley! Get back here!" but he was already out of earshot. Bob slumped down, planting his butt right in the wet cement.
"It's okay, Bob," Scoop said tentatively.
"No it's not!" Bob exploded.
"Um… I think we should go home now…" Muck intoned. So the trucks drove home leaving Bob alone, stuck in the cement crying his eyes out.
Ahh…, another wonderful day in Bobland…
The next morning when Bob had cried out all of the water in his body, which happens to be 60% of him or more, I'm not sure of the percent of water in claymation, he tried to get up. Mistake numero uno. Riiiiipp! The backside of his pants tore clean off.
"Ohhh…" he moaned, "those were my Sunday overalls!"
"It looks like yur Sunday overalls are now part of my very bumpy road!" Bob would know that southern hillbilly accent anywhere. Just to make the moment worse, Farmer Bill walked up. Bob blushed a deep red and put his hands on his butt, trying to cover his exposed tidy whiteys.
Meanwhile back at Bob's workshop…
"Roley still isn't back," Muck said looking out of the window.
"Of course he isn't back, you dolt! Bob fired him!" Packer snapped.
"Bob wouldn't fire Roley!" said Gripper who was a little… slow.
"Yeah!" Gripper's brother, Grabber, agreed.
"You were there when it happened," Muck told them miserably.
"What?" asked Travis. He was getting old and his hearing was going.
"BOB FIRED ROLEY!" Muck yelled in Travis' ear. With that, Muck zoomed out.
"No! Bob wouldn't fire Roley! He hasn't fired any-machine since 1458 when I was just a little motor! I don't believe it!" Travis bellowed.
"Wait… how old is Bob?" Dizzy asked.
"He's 763 next August," Flex was proud of his knowledge of Bob's life. In our world, we call that kind of person (or truck) a stalker, but in Bobland, there's no such thing. Let's say it together… on 3… 1…2…3… Flex is a stalker!
"Wow! That's old!" exclaimed Dizzy,
"Say what?" Travis couldn't hear, but everyone ignored him.
Me: Sorry! It's sort of short, and it will get more exciting! I hope you enjoyed it! Bob sort of needs a counselor or a therapist or something.
Bob: Me? It's you who needs a therapist! You're the writer!
Me: You may have a point there…
