Josephson/Keegan Vs Man w/Android Wife

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Josephson and Keegan P.I. Vs the Man With the Android Wife


The first thing that hit my desk was a manilla envelope. The second was a manilla envelope bulging with what seemed to be objects of various sizes. The third was a manilla envelope 3' long and looked to contain a prosthetic limb.

"Why do you insist on manilla envelopes?" I asked.

"Because it's professional," Keegan insisted. Keegan goes to work, that is, shows up at Josephson P.I. wide-eyed and possibly inebriated, dresed in a trenchcoat and several days' worth of filth. The irony was not lost upon me.

Morbidly curious I popped open the big one, wondering where he gets custom manilla envelopes. Inside is a surprisingly lifelike woman's arm, ending in a crispy array of heat-blasted circutry. It looked like a robot's arm.

"Is this a robot's arm?" I stated the obvious.

"Yes! How'd you guess?"

"Because you'd strike me as someone to explode a robot in order to get at the arm."

"Of course not! That'd be unprofessional. I removed it with a ... a... a soldering iron I think they call it. What do you call the one that makes heat?"

"A soldering iron?"

"No, the one that's... light-y."

"You used a laser?"

"Yeah! A laser!"

"They don't make lasers."

"They don't make robots, either... or DO they?!"

"I mean... nevermind." I looked it over. It even had fingerprints--impressive detail. "So who did this come off of?"

He opened the middle envelope and poured out a few framed photographs and a waterproof plastic bag of what looked like coffee. I looked at the photo and saw the head of the local P.D., posing next to his lovely wife. Or rather her head, as the rest of her was on a table next to him. It had less skin and more pointy metal bits than I cared to concider in my dirty thoughts about her.

"I'm pretty sure he backwashed into his coffee. DNA!"

"You stole a picture of his wife, his coffee, and his wife's arm?" I noticed the wedding band on her finger. I looked at it right side up and saw a certain manufacturer's name on it (it shall remain unnamed here). I always wondered why it said "Wicgo2(backwards F)T."

"I always knew she was a robot! I can smells 'em."

"Well, I had my suspicions something was up with her--she does kill all humans a lot, and that 'ejaculating burning fuel out her eyes' bit always made me wonder. But are you sure she's a robot?"

"I'll prove it to you."

"What, are you going to ask her to come over?"

"Well, the police are kind of coming over here."

BOOM.

"Oh, is that why there are grenades?"

"Yeah."

"Dammit. Come on..."


So we left my office and there was a gigantic spider tank levellign smoking grenade launchers at my frontal lobe. Not where I want them pointed, normally.

"So they have giant robots too?"

"They make 'em small, they make 'em big. HEY, YOU DIRTY SCREW!"

The head of the police (who shall be unnamed here), John Quincy Adams the XXth, was standing outside of the cockpit in a rather shootable position. His distraught wife sat next to him, and I did notice she had a burnt stump where her arm was. Still didn't lead me to conclusions.

"Excuse me, sir!" I asked. "How's the wife? She seems a little one-armed."

"Don't believe his lies!" Keegan screamed. "HE IS TEH DOCTER SATAN!"

"You're yelling that at him, Keegan. It's not helping."

JQAXX ("Jay Cue Eh Ecks Ecks" to his friends) said, "I'd like to ask you why you saw it fit to remove my wife's dear cyborg limb!"

"So, she's not a robot, only half robot?"

"Yes, and also there are brain chips. I think. We're not too clear on that."

"That sounds confusing."

"Like you wouldn't believe."

"You've been making female androids for over two thousand years!" Keegan said. "You've seen it, haven't you? Maraliyn Man Soon, transvestite country singer extraordinare! John Reremy, the moderately decent porn star horribly used by pornographers to appeal to the dyslexic market! Walter Winters, for Christ's sake! You didn't even have to see his face! Was he just a vocalizer wrapped in a towel, huh?! Huh?! Huh?!"

"You're blathering!" JQAXX said. "2.5 of them were men!"

"Soon to be 2," menaced Keegan.

"Kill all humans?" asked JQAXX's wife, whom I feel perfectly vindicated in naming here.

"Not now, Annonymous Rex. Please send back her arm or I'll blast you from one end of the world to the other!"

"Of course, sir," says I.

"Not so fast, bitch!" Keegan said. "As long as I have your wife's arm you don't have the adamantine-laced balls necessary to fire and possibly permanently maim your sex fantasy of choice!"

A robotic tentacle emerged from Annonymous Rex's forehead and lapped up the arm. It reattached the limb with an awe-inspiring mixture of duct tape and gumption.

"Well, damn. Let's run."

"No, Keegan!" I said. "You know, all this talk about robot wives and gumption is reminding me of that horrible remake!"

"But the original was pretty good," JQAXX said.

"Kill all humans!" Annonymous Rex agreed.

"Silence, my silicone sex cube."

"Hah! Sex cube! You just called her a silicon sex cube!"

"That, sir, is slander."

His wife ejaculated burning fuel from her eyes, annihilating several cars. None were mine so I didn't care.

"And what are you going to do about it, Mr. Men's Society of Stepford?"

JQAXX said, "I suppose wipe you from the face of the earth."

"Now, Keegan! Use that laser!"

"Oh, wait, I do have this thing. Let's do it!"

Surprisingly, lasers do make a sound surprisingly like ZAP! when you fire them.


So JQAXX lost to us and by the rules of genre convention defected his wife to us. There was other stuff involved--seizure of property, the disaporia of mankind, something amusing on odd-numbered places on the list--but it was all secondary to the wife.

"I can't believe we've got a female robot, man." Keegan sniffed himself. "I guess I'll have to wash myself more often to keep that new car smell lingering here."

"I know. I'll have to change my whole lifestyle. I need to subscribe to Hot Rods and How to Make Them Your Bitch. You know, I was never really that fond of the big-titted platinum blonde."

Annonymous Rex stared out the window--she does a lot of staring, really, when she isn't inquiring about murder or pleasuring herself to pictures of HK-47. Or, as she was doing now, spraying burning fuel at passersby and giggling.

"We need to find her a role model," Keegan said. "Like... Chi, from Chobits. Something that will make her lie around the house in compromising positions and wear cute outfits."

"I dunno, I'd rather not have a sexaroid that doesn't go insane and kill people when you touch its hoo-nanny. How about Dorothy from The Big O?"

"But she'll give us backtalk!"

"Backtalk gets me hard."

"Yeah... I guess."

"And let's look into having a plug or something. I could use less burning fuel."

"What is that stuff she's spraying?"

"Liquid hydrogen."

"Wow, that's... pretty inconvenient."

"She's like a kid with a magnifying glass and all the world is her anthill. I admire that in a girl."

"Ok, let her do that, but only when she's not looking at us."

"Agreed. How's red hair, green eyes?"

"Only if I'm dead and fed to wolverines."

"Oh, dang."

We had many misadventures, and so many dollars in property damage, and then the fleeing to Tijuana and assault by water-dwelling parasites. But that, like The Neverending Story, was probably not going to be satisfactorally adressed.Josephson and Keegan P.I. Vs the Man With the Android Wife By Kriegsaffe No. 9

The first thing that hit my desk was a manilla envelope. The second was a manilla envelope bulging with what seemed to be objects of various sizes. The third was a manilla envelope 3' long and looked to contain a prosthetic limb.

"Why do you insist on manilla envelopes?" I asked.

"Because it's professional," Keegan insisted. Keegan goes to work, that is, shows up at Josephson P.I. wide-eyed and possibly inebriated, dresed in a trenchcoat and several days' worth of filth. The irony was not lost upon me.

Morbidly curious I popped open the big one, wondering where he gets custom manilla envelopes. Inside is a surprisingly lifelike woman's arm, ending in a crispy array of heat-blasted circutry. It looked like a robot's arm.

"Is this a robot's arm?" I stated the obvious.

"Yes! How'd you guess?"

"Because you'd strike me as someone to explode a robot in order to get at the arm."

"Of course not! That'd be unprofessional. I removed it with a ... a... a soldering iron I think they call it. What do you call the one that makes heat?"

"A soldering iron?"

"No, the one that's... light-y."

"You used a laser?"

"Yeah! A laser!"

"They don't make lasers."

"They don't make robots, either... or DO they?!"

"I mean... nevermind." I looked it over. It even had fingerprints--impressive detail. "So who did this come off of?"

He opened the middle envelope and poured out a few framed photographs and a waterproof plastic bag of what looked like coffee. I looked at the photo and saw the head of the local P.D., posing next to his lovely wife. Or rather her head, as the rest of her was on a table next to him. It had less skin and more pointy metal bits than I cared to concider in my dirty thoughts about her.

"I'm pretty sure he backwashed into his coffee. DNA!"

"You stole a picture of his wife, his coffee, and his wife's arm?" I noticed the wedding band on her finger. I looked at it right side up and saw a certain manufacturer's name on it (it shall remain unnamed here). I always wondered why it said "Wicgo2(backwards F)T."

"I always knew she was a robot! I can smells 'em."

"Well, I had my suspicions something was up with her--she does kill all humans a lot, and that 'ejaculating burning fuel out her eyes' bit always made me wonder. But are you sure she's a robot?"

"I'll prove it to you."

"What, are you going to ask her to come over?"

"Well, the police are kind of coming over here."

BOOM.

"Oh, is that why there are grenades?"

"Yeah."

"Dammit. Come on..."


So we left my office and there was a gigantic spider tank levellign smoking grenade launchers at my frontal lobe. Not where I want them pointed, normally.

"So they have giant robots too?"

"They make 'em small, they make 'em big. HEY, YOU DIRTY SCREW!"

The head of the police (who shall be unnamed here), John Quincy Adams the XXth, was standing outside of the cockpit in a rather shootable position. His distraught wife sat next to him, and I did notice she had a burnt stump where her arm was. Still didn't lead me to conclusions.

"Excuse me, sir!" I asked. "How's the wife? She seems a little one-armed."

"Don't believe his lies!" Keegan screamed. "HE IS TEH DOCTER SATAN!"

"You're yelling that at him, Keegan. It's not helping."

JQAXX ("Jay Cue Eh Ecks Ecks" to his friends) said, "I'd like to ask you why you saw it fit to remove my wife's dear cyborg limb!"

"So, she's not a robot, only half robot?"

"Yes, and also there are brain chips. I think. We're not too clear on that."

"That sounds confusing."

"Like you wouldn't believe."

"You've been making female androids for over two thousand years!" Keegan said. "You've seen it, haven't you? Maraliyn Man Soon, transvestite country singer extraordinare! John Reremy, the moderately decent porn star horribly used by pornographers to appeal to the dyslexic market! Walter Winters, for Christ's sake! You didn't even have to see his face! Was he just a vocalizer wrapped in a towel, huh?! Huh?! Huh?!"

"You're blathering!" JQAXX said. "2.5 of them were men!"

"Soon to be 2," menaced Keegan.

"Kill all humans?" asked JQAXX's wife, whom I feel perfectly vindicated in naming here.

"Not now, Annonymous Rex. Please send back her arm or I'll blast you from one end of the world to the other!"

"Of course, sir," says I.

"Not so fast, bitch!" Keegan said. "As long as I have your wife's arm you don't have the adamantine-laced balls necessary to fire and possibly permanently maim your sex fantasy of choice!"

A robotic tentacle emerged from Annonymous Rex's forehead and lapped up the arm. It reattached the limb with an awe-inspiring mixture of duct tape and gumption.

"Well, damn. Let's run."

"No, Keegan!" I said. "You know, all this talk about robot wives and gumption is reminding me of that horrible remake!"

"But the original was pretty good," JQAXX said.

"Kill all humans!" Annonymous Rex agreed.

"Silence, my silicone sex cube."

"Hah! Sex cube! You just called her a silicon sex cube!"

"That, sir, is slander."

His wife ejaculated burning fuel from her eyes, annihilating several cars. None were mine so I didn't care.

"And what are you going to do about it, Mr. Men's Society of Stepford?"

JQAXX said, "I suppose wipe you from the face of the earth."

"Now, Keegan! Use that laser!"

"Oh, wait, I do have this thing. Let's do it!"

Surprisingly, lasers do make a sound surprisingly like ZAP! when you fire them.


So JQAXX lost to us and by the rules of genre convention defected his wife to us. There was other stuff involved--seizure of property, the disaporia of mankind, something amusing on odd-numbered places on the list--but it was all secondary to the wife.

"I can't believe we've got a female robot, man." Keegan sniffed himself. "I guess I'll have to wash myself more often to keep that new car smell lingering here."

"I know. I'll have to change my whole lifestyle. I need to subscribe to Hot Rods and How to Make Them Your Bitch. You know, I was never really that fond of the big-titted platinum blonde."

Annonymous Rex stared out the window--she does a lot of staring, really, when she isn't inquiring about murder or pleasuring herself to pictures of HK-47. Or, as she was doing now, spraying burning fuel at passersby and giggling.

"We need to find her a role model," Keegan said. "Like... Chi, from Chobits. Something that will make her lie around the house in compromising positions and wear cute outfits."

"I dunno, I'd rather not have a sexaroid that doesn't go insane and kill people when you touch its hoo-nanny. How about Dorothy from The Big O?"

"But she'll give us backtalk!"

"Backtalk gets me hard."

"Yeah... I guess."

"And let's look into having a plug or something. I could use less burning fuel."

"What is that stuff she's spraying?"

"Liquid hydrogen."

"Wow, that's... pretty inconvenient."

"She's like a kid with a magnifying glass and all the world is her anthill. I admire that in a girl."

"Ok, let her do that, but only when she's not looking at us."

"Agreed. How's red hair, green eyes?"

"Only if I'm dead and fed to wolverines."

"Oh, dang."

We had many misadventures, and so many dollars in property damage, and then the fleeing to Tijuana and assault by water-dwelling parasites. But that, like The Neverending Story, was probably not going to be satisfactorally adressed.


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