"Featuring works by Sylvia Plath and Truman Capote, the name of what now-defunct women's magazine means "miss" in French?"

"Oh, come on! You're gonna have to ask harder questions than that! Mademoiselle!"

A pause, then, "You got it!"

"Well, of course! I read it every week!"

A bit taken aback, Ben replied, "Really? They... uh... they haven't published new issues since 2001."

"There's more than one issue? Damn, I'm never going to finish it!"

"...Well, you're up to two thousand dollars now. Still got both your shoutouts."

"That's a good song."

"Oh, you're a Tears for Fears fan too?"

Joe laughed. "Is the Pope Canadian?"

They stared at each other for a few poignant moments, silently, through the rearview mirror. It was Joe who spoke up, firmly, though softly.

"Is... is there another question?"

"Yeah. I was just enjoying the awkward silence."

Joe was enjoying it too, but he didn't dare say so – perhaps the first time in his life that he had held his tongue. Because this, for the first time, was something real. He just knew it.

"Poultry fat served at room temperature, what Jewish substitute for butter is now a synonym for sentimentality?"

Not knowing the answer for sure, Joe quickly ran through his mental database of Jewish words, and before time could run out, he blurted out the first one he could think of.

"Shmuck!"

Ben stared at the wise old man for a few moments; then, ignoring the voices in his ear, said, "Well, that's close enough," unable to help himself from flashing a big smile.

The car came to a sudden stop.

"We're stuck at a red light."

"I know what that means!"

"Do you... really?"

"Oh yeah," Joe intoned knowingly, "And believe me – " he winked, though it was hard to tell, since that eye was always kinda squinty " – I'm always up for a challenge."

***

Useless.

He was number seven hundred forty-nine out of seven hundred fifty. Seven hundred and fifty presidential robot doubles, waiting patiently, just in case they were ever needed. And they were always called on in the same order. That meant that, unless a very repetitive series of disasters hit in close succession, he would never be called on. And it wouldn't be nearly as bad but for the fact that he was the only one who had accidentally been switched on.

He had broken free of the magnetic restraints a long time ago. In fact, with all his spare time, he had taken the restraints apart and reassembled them many times already. He redesigned them a bit each time, making them more efficient by removing more and more extraneous parts, which he had then used to make enhancements to his own frame. He could shoot lasers out of his tear ducts now.

Good thing, too. What better way to stop the tears from coming than by vaporizing them?

TO BE CONTINUED?!?