He was currently in an utterly forgettable stop-n-shop centered in an even more bland strip mall that carved the horizon of the suburbanite hell.

Jacknife considered himself a connoisseur of public service. Hadn't he been serving the public behind bars for how many countless times? Hadn't he been in the public service system since those early, oily-faced days of young adolescence when the indulgent life of crime first called to him? Had not his life been in constant service for the people as he so selflessly was placed in the public incarceration system for the greater safety and good of the larger public?

Yes – he had.

So this service – the twenty minutes of waiting (not-so) patiently in line as the cashier and – what had to be – a chronically old fossil of a human being, gaudily bejeweled and (of all things) a chain-smoking Jewish lady haggled over the price of gum that barely broke the dollar mark. This was not customer service. The only reason that he hadn't already pulled out the schiv that bulging in his back pocket and demand that the two shut up for God's sake! was because the cashier, in question, had a great rack. She was just at the age where they were going to get as big as they were meant to (well…at least naturally) and yet the inevitable passage of years hadn't caused them to fall and deflate like two leftover party balloons left to float in the living room until dejectedly resigned to prostrate upon the floor as latex raisin-like rejects.

It was that and the fact that he was planning on grabbing a handful from the take a penny leave a penny fund.

A few pennies slipped from his tight clench and, as they did, an all too familiar boom sounded ahead.

Jailbot.

And then the cold metallic claws snaked their way over his too thin frame. As one curled around his waist, another batting oxidized change out of his grip, and two others looping themselves under his arms and taking hold; he squeezed his eyes shut in expectation of the impending torment. Yet the arms, surprisingly, remained slack – though not dormant. Continually did they snake and curl – oscillating and almost playfully nipping at his clothes as though they were alive and born with the personality of week old puppies.

He was being toyed with. He was the proverbial mouse in the metaphoric vice of the cat.

For some reason, this was more infuriating than any beatdown could have been. Jacknife was a man of his instincts so, logically, he began to thrash about frenzied to shake his opponent off. All action and no finesse. His shoes skidded upon the floor and he reached desperately for the countertop that the cashier now cowered behind and then – whoop – the robot's grip did tighten now and he found himself a few feet higher than he had grown.

"Oh lighten up!" A cheery voice chirped – a sound a few degrees from a melody, ""This isn't going to hurt…well not for too long anyway."

Jacknife was not reassured nor was he able to get anything more than a disgruntled growl before – ah god! – the floor rushed up to meet him and his arms, useless as they were in the given situation, wind milled wildly to gain altitude. Then he was caught again by those cold arms and saved only inches from having his face reorganized on the linoleum by the claws of his very tormenter.

"Why so scared? The voice chimed in again, "I already told you it'd be okay." Then it paused thoughtfully before continuing to remark, "Unless you don't like being manhandled," the voice was full of candy canes and rainbow drops if any a voice could be ,"There's not much that I can do to help that."

Though the words were of encouragement, they did not help to abate Jacknife's utterance part screaming and equal parts whimpering.

However this was cut off as he was thrown in the air for what seemed the millionth time over and was rearranged in the robot's tentacular grip so that he finally, fully faced his captor. He recognized the face. It couldn't be helped. Anoyone who had met that face would – to be sure – never forget it.

It was the Warden.

And the Warden was draped over the head of his war-like robot so that he sat piggy-back across the thing so that his well-oiled boots stuck out over the thing and he rest his head upon a gloved hand propped upon Jailbot's own head.

And that head contained the most devious smile possible in pixilated form.