So this... this came about because of a dare from DevilKing091. It's one of those fun 2AM things where you think it's hilarious because you've had a Monster and sugar and everything is funny. Because, you know, it's 2 AM. The dare took the form of a what-if question, which is fairly typical.

Question: "What if Fisto went crazy?"

So this is the result. And uh, if you see spelling/grammar stuff... there's probably a lot of it. Feel free to tell me so. And if it isn't funny, you can crucify it. I don't mind. I'm still shocked I actually wrote it, frankly. Rated for swearwords, and some suggestive stuff. It's a story about a sexbot; there's some naughty things going on. Nothing explicit. Enjoy, if that is at all possible.

A bolt of green light illuminated the room, catching the unfortunate rat in mid leap. Time seemed to slow almost to a halt as the rat recoiled, its broken body twisting, folding in on itself. The gaping hole in its chest spread like a fast-blooming, malignant flower. The rat's body disintegrated. The remains crumbled to glowing dust on the floor. The skilled gunslinger chuckled. Her husky, alluring voice echoed through the ravaged facility. Another perfect shot.

Hey, modesty is a strong suit of mine.

I kicked aside the fragmented remains of the creature's skeleton, humming to myself. The room was full of dead rats with glazed, dull eyes. They had proved to be an annoyance, but I took care of them with my typical grace and skill. They stood between me and my goal, and I did not like that.

What was my goal? Well, it's a funny story. It starts at my favorite place in the world: The Atomic Wrangler. See, I love to gamble, and I'm good at it, too. I can play Blackjack like nobody's business. I also like whiskey. And Jet. As you might know, that sort of thing is pretty expensive.

The story goes like this. I, the Courier, the Hero of the Wastes, walked into the Atomic Wrangler on a Sunday, plopped a bag of caps down on the counter, and indulged myself in every pleasure the Wrangler had to offer. When the caps got low I tried to bargain with one of the siblings that runs the place, Francine Garrett. When she wouldn't cooperate, I tried my famous charm on her. People were knocked out, bottles were broken, and a Ghoul comedian is now terrified of me, as he well should be. When the guards calmed down, Francine called her brother James.

James didn't react the way I expected. Instead he calmly sat me down, poured me a shot to ease my shakes (hey, it's only a minute tremble!) and talked with me about the money I owe and the slot machines I'd accidentally knocked over. With a tire iron. You know, boring stuff. He wanted me to work off my debt. I couldn't say no, the guy had me over a barrel. After some haggling, we struck a deal. I promised to do some services for him. In return, he promised not to hire a guy to bash my face in.

James handed me a laundry list of people to collect. Not debtors or drinkers or anybody interesting. James wanted hookers. Unique, specific hookers: a Ghoul cowboy; a smooth-talking fake boyfriend; and a sexbot. Like you can find a damn sexbot that still functions. We're in the Mojave Wasteland, people. Everything extraneous and fun has already been salvaged to make weapons. Even the teddy bears. Ever seen a Rock-It Launcher? I rest my case.

Anyway, I emerged from the Wrangler on Saturday with a killer hangover, a bloody nose from Jet use, and a brain full of ideas. I stepped out into the dusty street, took a breath of fresh desert air, and checked my funds. Two caps winked at me from the depths of my emergency cash bag. Well, two was better than none. I found an old wino sleeping in an alley, stole his bottle of vodka, and relieved him of his caps. Hey, being a wasteland hero is hard work. A girl gets thirsty. And sober. There's no living in this place unless you're blazed out of your mind roughly ninety-five percent of the time.

By the time I reached the Old Mormon Fort, I was salivating. I could practically taste those caps. See, I'd already met Beatrix, the old rumhound Ghoul who served as a gun-for-hire for the Followers of the Apocalypse. I knew she was into a little slap and tickle. Or . . . was it "pinch and squeal?" Well, it didn't matter; I wasn't going to hire her. I greeted her in my customary way and turned on the charm. She managed to screw me out of an Atomic Cocktail before agreeing to be the Garretts' sadistic Ghoul cowboy.

I'm not very good at talking to women.

After Beatrix, I met Old Ben. And . . . well, DAMN. Not bad-looking for an old guy. I charmed him without having to give up any of my newly-earned caps. He was pretty excited to be a "boyfriend" again, because apparently, retirement sucks the big one (I wasn't really listening to him; I was busy staring). I turned him in for another handful of caps and a mark on my record towards the debt I owed. After Old Ben, I just needed a sexbot.

Which brings me to present time.

Searching the hard way was nearly impossible. I wore out my new boots tramping all across Freeside looking for a sexbot, or for some spare parts I could jury-rig. I figured they would have one somewhere in Vegas, so Freeside seemed like logical place to look. I'm fairly good at finding things. Eventually, though, I admitted defeat and went to Mick and Ralph's to ask Ralph. He told me about Cerulean Robotics. He offered me a program for about a billion caps, and I refused him. I couldn't afford a holotape. I just had to pray the stupid bot had one already.

So here I was, in this vermin-infested building, shooting rats and looking for a robot. I took the left door in the lobby into a huge room with a dead conveyor belt, passed through a series of smaller offices, killing everything in my way, and eventually ended up in the room I had started in. Flummoxed, I sat down on the reception desk. Where the hell was that robot? It had to be here! I needed it!

It turns out that if I had just looked around the corner upon entering the conveyor belt room, I would have seen the robot immediately. He was in the back corner, sealed in a glowing pod, intact and perfect. I grinned and turned to the terminal beside the pod. Using my spectacular hacking skills, I disabled the lock. Okay, I actually used the keycard I'd swiped from a tool cabinet. I looted the key to the cabinet from a corpse. Shut up.

The electronic lock disengaged. I clicked the diagnostic button. There was a whirr, a sound like a machine clearing its throat. The bot turned out to be fine. However, it needed a program to run. Well, damn. I stomped out of Cerulean Robotics with my customary, impeccable self-control, and begged Ralph for a holotape. Good news, he took pity on me. Bad news, it took him a whole day to finish.

I planted myself on a stool in the corner of his store and bothered him about the stupid thing nearly every hour. Mick lost his temper after my fourth inquiry and turned me out on the street to wait. I chain-smoked like a mad bastard most of the waiting time, and even took a little field trip to the Thorn to play with Radscorpions.

At last, Ralph was finished! I raced back to Cerulean Robotics and triumphantly plugged the holotape into the terminal. With a whirr and a buzz, the pod door slid open; the robot clanked out of the pod and stood at attention before me. "Fully Integrated Security Technetronic Officer active and reporting for duty," it announced in its robotic drone.

I surveyed the robot thoughtfully. "That is a mouthful." Inspiration struck my brilliant mind like a stampeding Brahmin. "Let's shorten it to Fisto."

The robot hummed as it saved the name to its memory bank. "Yes, ma'am. Fisto reporting for duty. Please assume the position."

Assume . . . the position? My eyes widened in horror. "What? No!"

The robot didn't give up. Like most robots, Fisto was relentless. "I am programmed for your pleasure. Please assume the position."

Fisto was offering me free sexual pleasure. But did I really want this machine's nuts (and bolts) inside me? Briefly, I considered it. James would be pretty pissed if I handed this beast over and it didn't work. "I suppose I should test you out before I hand you to the Garretts . . . ."

Here I must pause in my narrative and explain a few things. I'm not into robots. Not at all. But in the Wasteland, pleasure is pleasure. You take what you can get. I must also say that the story from here gets a little . . . graphic. You have been warned.

. . . All right, here is my interpretation of Fisto's . . . service. I will not go into detail, but I will describe my thought process during this time.

Oh this feels wait ow ow owowowohdearGod whattheFUCK!

When I opened my eyes again, Fisto stood waiting expectantly for my next command. My knees buckled; I locked them in an attempt to stay upright. "All right, Fisto," I said. Though my legs felt weak and my breathing came in sharp gasps, I forced my voice to sound strong and authoritative. I knew he's a robot, but I wasn't going to seem like a weakling in front of him. Discreetly I armed sweat off my forehead with the sleeve of my duster. "Time for a change of employment."

Fisto didn't seem to hear me. "Assume the position."

I frowned. That again? Uh-uh. "No. I'm done. You've been tested. You're fine. Now Fisto, you're going to go work for the Garretts."

"Assume the position," the robot droned again. It took a laborious, clumsy step forward on stiff metal legs. I leaped backward. The heavy foot had almost crushed my toes. My hand automatically flew down to my Magnum. What can I say; it's the gunslinger in me. "Assume the position."

"No!" I said loudly. My voice echoed in the huge space, startling the one cunning rat I hadn't managed to kill. Fisto waved its arms around, bearing down on me. I withdrew. "No, Fisto! Stop! Shut down! Halt!"

The robot's arms and legs twitched uncontrollably; the glowing plate that made up its face flickered like a candle. "Assume the position, assume the position, assume the position," it babbled over and over. Its torso rotated back and forth as if seeking me. I backed up until my butt hit the wall. Terror threatened to squeeze my head in a panicky vise. Something was definitely wrong. I drew my gun and pointed it at Fisto. "Stop!"

Oh, crap. He froze, the light behind his face quivering. There was a second of silence in which neither of us dared to breathe. Okay, just me. I know robots can't breathe. The point is that there was a lot of tension. Tension so thick, I could cut it with a diamond laser cutter. The gun had possibly spooked him, which was what I hoped for. Or, he had some kind of program in him that caused him to freak out when he saw guns, which could be a good thing or a bad thing. If he attacked, I was probably screwed. If not, I would have to fix him, so I was still screwed. I am not good with machines. Or anything really. If you want shit blown up or someone's pocket picked, I'm your guy (err, girl), but any activities involving anything more complicated than pilfering booze from drunks are about as achievable for me as a trip to the moon.

Breathless, I waited for Fisto to speak. Something clicked and snapped beneath its plate armor. There was definitely something wrong with him, an internal error the terminal hadn't picked up. That holotape had to be faulty. I swore that if I got out of this situation alive, I would kill Ralph and take my caps back, plus a few hundred extra. So much for good service.

Slowly, ominously, Fisto declared, "Assume the position."

My resolve broke. I fled.

I burst out of Cerulean Robotics as if someone had detonated a nuclear bomb inside, or released all the demons from Hell, or awakened Moira Brown and set her upon me (I'm not exactly sure who Moira is, but I've been told she's some kind of she-devil that haunts the Wastelands, bringing misfortune and terror to all). With one hand on my head to keep my hat on, I sprinted in the direction of Mick and Ralph's. Those Freeside resident bastards must have had quite an eyeful: Me, the Courier, the Hero of the Wastes, bolting from an abandoned building like a scared kid who's just seen a ghost, or perhaps a Moira. My pride already hurt. I had an image to keep up, after all.

Just outside of Cerulean I encountered three bad-tempered old ladies waving rolling pins. I ran right past them. When I chanced a look back, I saw their dumbfounded expressions. Obviously they expected a fight. Yeah right, I could have blown off all their heads in the time it took to sneeze. I kept running. Five seconds later I heard a familiar robotic voice and a cry of shock. Fisto had obviously worked all the kinks out of its motor function systems. That thing moved fast. I slowed to a jog and turned around. Distracted by the old ladies, Fisto paused, as if confused. Then it prepared to give the women the same treatment. I winced. Not pretty. I turned away. Time to get going again.

By the time I made it to Mick and Ralph's, I was a wreck. There was a stitch in my side sending out slamming waves of pain in time to every rapid beat of my heart. My legs were sore. There was a bruise on my thigh because of the gun barrel repeatedly bashing it. I was so worn out I couldn't do anything for a moment except cling to the door and wheeze. I really need to quit smoking. Once I had myself relatively under control, I pushed the door open.

The shop was cool and dim. I located Ralph immediately and confronted him, still panting like a dog. He sized me up and commented, "You look like hell."

"Gee, thanks," I said sarcastically. "Compliments like that make a girl feel fantastic."

"You're a girl?"

I gave up. "Look, Ralph, I'm not here for small talk. I'm here to file a complaint about that holotape you gave me."

Ralph laughed. "Complaints must be submitted in writing."

"How about I punch you in the face?" I inquired. "I'll write the complaint in your blood."

I was not in a good-enough mood to deal with his jokes.

"Oh, fine," sighed Ralph, disappointed (and probably terrified). "What's wrong with it?"

There was a knock on the door. Well, more like an explosion. The whole building shook from the force of the blow. Ralph rocked on his heels, his eyes wide. I groaned. "Uh, well, it seems that the robot . . . likes its job. A little too much."

There was another huge concussive blast against the front wall. The glass door splintered. Ralph's eyes widened to the size of dinner plates. "What the . . ."

"Well . . . ."

The door shattered in a spray of glass.

Fisto came in.

Ever have one of those night mares where the monster just keeps coming? Where there's nothing you can do to stop it and nowhere to hide? That was exactly how it felt right then. Everything slowed down to nightmare pace. Cold with terror, I levered my gun at the rampaging robot still spouting its command. NO! the voice in my head shrieked. The caps! Swearing, I stuck my gun back in my belt and chanced a glance at Ralph. The poor guy looked scared to death. Fisto swung around to look at us, knocking over precarious piles of junk on his way. "Stairs," I ordered. I had to take control, after all. That was kinda my job.

Ralph bolted for the staircase, up to his private dwellings above the shop. Fisto was too slow to grab him as he passed. I took advantage of the robot's distraction to run behind him and snag a cable from a shelf. Working quickly, I laid the cable right in front of the archway that led to the stairs, weighing it down with two heavy pieces of concrete salvaged from some old building. There was even a rebar loop in one of the concrete chunks. The result was a crude but effective (and strong) tripwire. Carefully I stepped over the trap and shot up the stairs, two at a time. I could feel Fisto bearing down on me.

At the top of the stairs I encountered Mick. He was red-faced with anger. "What the hell, Six?" he bellowed. A vein pulsed in his temple.

I scowled, not intimidated by his rage. The Wrath of Six was scarier than the Wrath of Mick. "Well if Ralph had given me a working holotape, this wouldn't have happened!" I snapped back.

Mick unleashed a stream of profanity. How fucking unprofessional can you get? "Well there is now a horny robot trashing my store, and someone is going to pay for it!"

"Not me!" I declared, raising my hands in a gesture of surrender. "I'm innocent. Take it out on the Garretts." Hey, I wasn't about to take the blame. I'm just a courier.

There was a thunderous crash from below. The floor and walls shook. Silence from Fisto. I smiled triumphantly. "Ha! My trap worked! Suck it!"

Mick opened his mouth to speak. Before he could admit to my robot-catching skills, we clearly heard a thud from down below. Then a second. Then the sound of servos and creaking wood.

Oh, shit.

Mick's grin was only a touch sour. "So your trap worked huh?"

"Go to hell," I responded.

Mick retreated to the far end of the room. "The hell do we do now, Six?" he asked. Ralph, pale-faced, crawled out from under his bed, dusty and trembling. They looked at me with pathetic, defeated puppy-dog eyes.

The clunking grew louder, closer. A croaked "Assume the position" floated up to us. I looked at the shuttered windows. "I think we need to use an emergency exit."

Working quickly, we shoved one of the beds a few inches to the right, so the mattress lay directly under the window. Fisto entered the room, moving slower now. His glass face was cracked. His right leg dragged on the ground. He had taken quite a tumble. Mick, the coward, seized a broken floor lamp and used it to force open the shutters. He bounced onto the bed and threw himself out the opening. Ralph cried out and stuck his head out the window. "Mick!" he bellowed.

I didn't hear Mick's answering shout, but I found out later that somehow, the lucky bastard had taken a flying leap straight out the window and caught the huge, gaudy sign bolted to the side of the wall. From there it was an easy drop onto some rubble that formed a natural ramp to the ground. He made the jump with only some minor bruises and cuts. I hate him.

I couldn't worry about Mick at that moment. I had business to attend to upstairs. I took a baseball bat and chucked it at Fisto's head. The robot plucked it effortlessly from midair and held it out to me. "Tool accepted," it buzzed.

"Oh hell no!" I shrieked. Yes, I screamed like a little girl. But if "tool accepted" meant what I thought it meant, you'd scream too. I seized the protesting Ralph around the waist and used the bed as a springboard, carrying the lighter man out the window with me.

It took an age for us to fall, even though it was really only about five seconds. I twisted my body so my back faced the ground, keeping Ralph on top of me. When we hit the street, I would take the impact instead of him. His terrified eyes stared into mine. Nose to nose, we remained locked in a weird kind of embrace. I could have used the mattress as a cushion, I mused.

Stupid fucking brain. Always coming up with decent suggestions after I was already screwed. I vowed that if I survived, I would buy one of those books that are supposed to raise my INT by one point in sixteen easy courses.

I swear to you now that if it weren't for my helmet, I would be dead now. I picked it up in a hellhole called the Sierra Madre Casino. It was a standard issue security helmet, looted from some random drawer or another. One of my companions, a Ghoul named Dean Domino, had argued with me when I wanted to keep it, but he was easily convinced. The guy hadn't seen a decent woman in two hundred years, give him a break. I really needed a helmet, and the Sierra Madre was isolated . . . pretty perfect time to indulge my little . . . ah . . . Ghoul fetish. The Wastelanders think it's creepy. Long story short, Dean agreed to carry other stuff so I could keep the helmet. It fit neatly under my hat. It was a little small, but I had paid a hefty fee to modify it, installing some padding meant to protect my head. Plus a sweet paint job.

When I hit the road, my back took the most trauma. My head hit second, bringing stars into my vision, but it didn't split open. I didn't black out, though everything went gray and red for a few seconds. Ralph was unharmed; he trembled like a man in the grip of fever against my skin. I groaned and pushed him off. "Come on, man," I muttered. "Let's get up now."

He crawled off me. I could feel broken bones for sure, but nothing a few Super-Stimpaks couldn't fix. The helmet was shattered, probably irreparable. I didn't care. I was just grateful to be alive. I promised myself that I'd stop drinking and smoking. Turn over a new leaf! Be a good person. Never steal again. Be nice to Deathclaws.

. . . . Okay, maybe not the last one. Or the one before. Or any of them, really.

I carefully sat up, relishing the limited mobility. My right leg stuck out at an odd angle. Ralph dragged me out of the street by the armpits. I screamed out loud, I'll admit. It hurt like a sonofabitch. My broken leg bumped along the uneven street, sending jolts of pain all through my body. This was almost as bad as being shot in the head. At least I'd had a sweet Med-X drip going at that time. Doc Mitchell hooked me up with some powerful drugs . . . ahh, memories.

Ralph got me out of the way just in time. Fisto walked to the window and, finding the wall in the way, proceeded to bash it to pieces. "NOOO!" I shrieked. If Fisto fell out the window and broke, I wouldn't get my caps! "Fisto! Stop! Fisto stop now! Please, for the love of God!" It hurt to yell, but I did anyway.

Mick jabbed me with a Stimpak. I yelped. "Shut up," he ordered.

I tried to protest. Instead I vomited. I like to think the vomiting was due to the massive intake of healing drugs and the profound damage I'd done to myself, rather than the horror I felt over losing the sexbot. While I was busy puking my guts into the gutter like some street bum, Fisto freed himself from the wall and took a step into thin air.

I couldn't watch. I had to close my eyes.

The crash and thud were deafening. The street shook, as if from an earthquake. I kept my eyes tightly shut. "Is it over?" I asked through gritted teeth.

"Yep," sighed Ralph. "It's over."

The Stimpak busily rearranged my internal organs and repaired the broken bones. It took about twenty minutes and four Stimpaks to bring me to my feet. By that time, the first wary citizens had crept out of their houses and tiptoed toward Mick and Ralph's. As soon as they realized the danger was over, they flocked to the robot and prepared to tear him apart for scrap metal. Well, I wasn't having any of that nonsense. I fired a warning shot into the air the second some brave asshole dared to try making off with Fisto's . . . uh, fist. He squealed like a frightened rat and raced away with his hands over his head. Everyone else scattered. They wanted to save their miserable hides. Cowards.

Mick and Ralph stood in silence, gazing up at their ruined store, occasionally shooting me poisonous glances. I was in trouble, I knew it. I could barely stand up, so I sank into the gutter, avoiding my own puke, and disentangled my head from my mangled helmet.

"What are we going to do?" asked Ralph sadly.

"We're going to kill the Courier!" snapped Mick. I glanced up. Uh oh. The guy was red-faced and furious again. He advanced on me, slowly, looming over me like . . . well, like Fisto would have.

I raised my hands slowly, trying to scrabble away in a courageous and non-pathetic fashion while retaining a scrap of dignity. "Look, man . . . ."

And after that, I think I went to sleep for a while. When I awoke, it was night, and my head was all bloody. My pistol was gone. So was my pack, my hat, the shreds of my helmet, and my trench coat. Mick had taken nearly everything I owned while I lay unconscious in the street. I fumed for a few moments, and then realized it could be worse. I could have been dead. Either way, I was fairly sure the blow had lowered by INT by another point. For the love of God, I didn't have any points to spare. I threw up again in the gutter.

When my gorge settled, I looked around. There was a figure bent over in front of Mick and Ralph's store front, fiddling with Fisto's corpse. Standing silhouetted by the light from inside the shop were Mick and Ralph themselves, watching the tinkerer intently. I raised my throbbing head. The world warped and twisted before my eyes. "Hey!" I protested.

Mick turned his head. "You," he said. I flinched, expecting another hit. It never came. Mick turned back to Fisto and crossed his arms before him.

"Whas goin' on?" I slurred.

"We got someone to fix your robot!" Mick snapped without turning around. "Ralph felt obligated because he messed up your holotape."

I grinned. "Why thank you," I said in what I hoped was a drawl. Actually, it was probably closer to an unintelligible mumble. "So uh, who's the mechanic?"

"A friend of mine," replied Mick. Strangely, there was a smile on his face. The smile just barely qualified as a pleasant one. "She offered to fix it up if you'd give her a room at the Lucky 38 while she's in town. I said you would."

I barely heard this last part. My stomach had suddenly dropped. A feeling of foreboding swept through me, chilling my blood to ice in my veins. "'She?'" I squeaked.

The woman turned. She was short and slight, wearing a battered jumpsuit with a tool belt around her waist. She smiled at me. "Why hello!" she chirped in a disgustingly cheerful voice. The sound grated on my nerves. She could not have hurt my head more if she'd scraped two Cosmic Knives together right beside my ear. "Sleeping Beauty is awake!"

I stared at her, utterly bewildered. What the hell was a sleeping beauty? A bomb? I desperately wished I was still unconscious. Anything would be better than being near . . . her. Her eyes were like two overly-friendly windows into the depths of Hell itself. "Uhh . . . ." I sidled away from her, but her eyes followed me wherever I went. Thoroughly disturbed, I began desperately trying to recall all the prayers I once knew as a kid. Maybe one had the power to vanquish evil spirits.

"Just getting started on your Mister Fisto, here!" She fondly slapped the robot's face plate. With a tinkle of glass, the light cover broke in. "Whoops!"

I groaned. "Miss, who the hell are you?"

"I'm your new roommate, silly!" She stood up and offered her hand, which was totally ordinary, not at all like an evil claw or black-nailed monster hand. I backed away slowly. Something told me that if I touched her, I'd be possessed by Satan or something. Why the hell did I have such a feeling about her? She seemed so sweet and innocent . . . and evil.

Oh, no.

"My name is Moira Brown!" she declared. "You and I are gonna be living together! Jeez! What a day, huh?"

I couldn't help it. I threw back my head and screamed my tortured lament to the faded desert sky.

Before that day I could not have imagined a fate worse than being shot in the head by a pansy in a sweet suit, then being left for dead and dug out of a hole by a robot. When Moira moved in with me that night, carrying her box of belongings and chattering all the while, I learned an entirely new kind of hell. People began to avoid my company. They laughed at me openly in the streets. I couldn't buy a drink without someone snickering and asking me how Moira was. I was chased, humiliated, out of the Atomic Wrangler, the Silver Rush, and even the Lucky Thirty-Fucking-Eight. How does one get laughed out of a casino inhabited only by Securitrons?!

Oh, right. House is a bastard with a wicked sense of humor.

The Garretts proved to be understanding about the whole "I broke your sexbot and then did a deal with the super-annoying antichrist to fix him" thing. James was ecstatic when I turned up with the battered but docile Fisto in tow. He gave me the caps he had promised and permanently banned me from the Atomic Wrangler for my petty vandalism and Ghoul-frightening activities. Six months later, he relented and allowed me back in. By then I was four thousand caps richer. What did I do the moment I stepped into the Wrangler?

Bought Ben, got drunk, and broke more slot machines, of course.

Moira turned out to be okay for a hellish demonic monster. She's kinda cool. She still lives in the 38 with me, tinkering with machines and performing tests on me and Boone. That poor bastard never complains. I suspect she has him drugged. Or he's under some sort of demonic possession. Too bad there's no holy water left, huh?

You know, it's times like these that make me wish I'd stayed in the Sierra Madre. That Dean guy knew how to swing.

Review please?