Phantom prowler, take two
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A junky instrument, that could be a guitar, plays, along with a drum.
Someone decides to whine out words about being in shock, or going into shock, mixed with some weird japanese words that don't belong.
Strangely enough, the song is actually quite good.
Large, bold letters at the bottom of the screen spell out a mix of apologizes, technobabble, and time-schedules.
The narrator spares no time.
"Educate me with your inhuman wisdom," he spits the words as the show returns for real. "What elements make up good art?"
Loud thumps, grinding gears, and someone silences them with a squirt of oil.
"Error; query not ad hoc adequate for an arrant counter-strike. Dawdling to low temperature principles," more lights flicker, and almost a moment passes. It sounds like someone's turning pages of a giant tome within the metal structure. "Solution attained; the unit has adjudicated that flesh-A deficiencies to cognize the perplexities of constituting pure of psyche, carcass, and essence. The solution is to maroon the frame, for the soma is decrepit. Entirely orthogonal, an estimable bit of codified fine art comprises a substantial cerebration, in the contour of a plot, an equilibrized circle of personas, wholly recounted and enshrouded in exquisite english, no vernacular, prosaic linguistic processes, or chat format."
It makes sense to no more than eight people in the audience.
"That's interesting," the narrator mumbles. His right foot tips over yet another soda can. "So what defines an idiot?"
Two loud beeps, some clunking.
"Olympian noesis unacceptable by those of superior faculty," another can's snatched and swiftly vanishes into the machine's torso.
Gulping sounds, some mechanical whining. Tiny pieces of metal roll around inside the robot.
The narrator taps the table once with his right heel.
"what about rules and regulations?" the final two cans are tipped. "Wouldn't responsible people, like most adults claim to be, have no need for either?"
A single light starts flashing red for no apparent reason.
"Comeback: surely, you must be jesting," the audience laughs mildly for almost one minute. "Rules are bête noire to the mentally gainsaid."
"We can always hope so," he's one of few who understands the robot. "Care to give me an example?"
It steals yet another soda can.
"Don't bite bricks," a hatch on the left side of its torso opens, and a small screen pops out. An extremely shitty flash animation plays on it, consisting of about seven frames and stock sound. Two humans, one male, one female, stands around and chews on bricks. "It is a cosmic pattern."
Second tap.
"They'll keep chewing until you hit them in the head with something solid," third. "Like reason, or the truth."
The screen retracts, and the robot emits several seconds worth of unhealthy mechanical grinding. It looks like it's waiting for him to speak again, but he doesn't seem willing to oblige.
A minute passes.
Two.
"And the rest is dental history," the narrator finally comments. "Fortunes have been made that way."
Another soda can's stolen by one of the pincers, and they both slowly disappear into the robot's torso.
"So," he mumbles. His right hand finds its way inside his jacket, "what, exactly, do robots know about romance, sex, love, and understanding?" It returns with a set of six white dice, their six sides adorned by weird symbols.
Slurping.
"Hypothetically verbalizing," the robots whines. Something rolls around inside it, "software is fault-proof, dissimilar to the umpteen inauspiciously-fated perturbations of tissue that most cosmoses of logic are founded upon. Thence, it is leisurely to conduct that mechanics are never awry, and noesis is perfect in wholes like the presently active utterer."
He cuts straight to the chase at hand.
"What about same-sex relationships?" someone whistles.
"Humanity," the machine drones, "is a bêtise, and deviations ought to be forestalled." At this point, the audience splits in two. One half decides to boo, the other half cheers.
One die is tossed onto the table, and the white thing bounces twice before coming to a halt inches from the robot. A blue spiral covers the top side.
"what drives you?" his voice is low, almost like a whisper.
"Temporal warp applied science," low humming follows, "logistics corresponding the cohesion of two-hundred-and-twenty volts of self-possession as intimately as the most inauspicious faults that this unit had the theoretical fortune of experiencing and subjugating in austere trauma or mentally relocated otherwise." Only one creature present understands the robot's words.
The narrator sighs.
"Is it possible to please someone as perfect as yourself?" second die's tossed, and it, too, bounces twice before coming to a stop right next to the first. It's symbol is an upside-down cross.
Green lights flash, and another burst of steam's released from the robot's head-vent.
"Candid disambiguation error-wise with stochastic factors," the silly robots drones. Someone, who's obviously not impressed by the fancy language, yawns loudly.
He's getting bored, and it shows.
"Is it wrong to hate those that have been proven, repeatedly, to possess a lower mental capacity than yourself?" he leans forward, then sets his remaining dice aside next to his right leg.
"Hatred," a sudden blip, "is irrelevant when connoting coerced destruction."
A handful of idiots clap their hands, but they're soon silenced by a superior force of idiots who don't approve of the robot's views.
Within moments, a war has erupted within the audience, but the narrator doesn't appear to care even slightly.
"Counted in human years," he mumbles, then taps the right armrest with his corresponding hand, "how old do you consider yourself to be?"
It clicks, and some sparks fly from its wheels.
"This unit does not appreciate being equated with erroneousnesses."
Chairs are swung like clubs by angry onlookers, and a virtual hill of moving limbs and angry faces has taken shape in the center of it all. Most of them hoot like angry monkeys.
"Last one," another tap. "Will you tell the audience what kind of gear you possess?" It looks like he could have a fat smirk concealed beneath the shadows that guard his face.
The reply comes without delay.
"A pail of bolts, two liters of oil, four serial cables, one magnetic storage device," more sparks fly, from the head this time. It's like someone's sitting inside and scratching pieces of metal together, "and a compounding of the reply you wish to discover obliterated at the closing of your query."
Synths and guitars come online in the band's direction, and a male voice starts singing about crystals, honey, and love, then things fade once more.
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VT2 - 2006