R.W.C. #2: 'The Most Important Law'

"Cheesesticks & Poon: The Adventures of Robot Winston Churchill Across the Ages"

Part Two

"The Most Important Law"

Doctor Robert Feebleshouz, chief engineer of XS Robots, Inc., strode proudly down the airtight passageway to the shipping dock. It was, after all, his moment of triumph over the nay sayers.

As he gripped the railing and overlooked the countless rows of new androids (of which he had personally designed) ready for shipment to all corners of the galaxy, he felt untouchable. Sure, the older, retired scientists had warned him of what such a enterprise could entail, but now was not a time for second guessing. He had dignitaries to address and investors to impress.

As his speech neared the end, he pointed to the three sentences on the giant poster behind his podium. Imprinted on them were the Three Laws of Robotics.

Law One: A robot may not injure a human being or, through inaction, allow a human being to come to harm.

Law Two: A robot must obey orders given it by human beings except where such orders would conflict with the First Law.

Law Three: A robot must protect its own existence as long as such protection does not conflict with the First or Second Law.

“With these rules programmed in every robot’s hard drive,” the Doctor stated for the press, “no human will ever come to harm on the behalf of a robot.”

Just then, as if that sentence had triggered him, a shell of a man, bound to an electric wheelchair, was able to drive himself up onto the stage. The man began to speak, only to be tackled quickly to the ground by three security guards.

“Stop,” the Doctor ordered, “let him speak.”

The old man, speaking through a coarse voice box, stared Feebleshouz down, as if trying to read his very soul. Finally, after an awkward silence, he spoke.

“Good Doctor, you know just as well as I do what happens when the Fourth Law is ignored. Trust me. Now that you have built them, He will come.”

Sure, the Doctor had heard of the fabled Fourth Law, but that was exactly what it was; a fable.

“Who,” the Doctor inquired, “will come?”

With a twinkling sparkle in his dying eyes, the old man did little but laugh and, pointing in the direction of a mammoth figure in the corner of the shipping dock, gave the Doctor his answer.

“Him.”

As the crowd turned to where the old man had been pointing, a desperate scream pierced the silence, only to be shut up as quickly as it had been heard. A small trail of blood and what had been vital organs trickled down from the shadows, followed by a man most definitely not included the day’s elite guest list. The old man laughed and the Doctor screamed, but it made no difference. Robot Winston Churchill was back, and he was out for poon.

Armed guards are of little use with their spines broken in no less than a dozen places, and within the blink of an eye, the Doctor and his guests found themselves unarmed, defenseless, and in the possession of far too many poon-holes to be able to cover. The Doctor shrieked and tried to run, but Robot Winston Churchill was already on top of him before he had made his first step.

“In the name of Jesus Christ 2.0, have mercy!”

The Doctor’s pleas, however heartfelt, fell on deaf ears. Deaf, metallic, robot ears. Robot Winston Churchill, being programed with the ability to smell fear, unscrewed his giant android dick and cock slapped Feebleshouz so hard the good Doctor’s wife orgasmed eleven hundred miles away. As Robert’s body crumpled to the floor in a puddle of blood and robot love juice, the rasping sounds emitting from his shattered throat the only evidence of life, Robot Winston Churchill turned to other, more titillating interests.

The dumbstruck crowd let out a collective scream, every man, woman, and child making a made dash for the handful of doors in the back of the dock. Robot Winston Churchill turned his gaze to the crew of the Korean News Network, covering the event for their viewers in Seoul. The speech was being taped live, and those who had tuned in to learn about advancements in the field of robot technology were witnessing much more of the advancements in the field of robot love making. And as the screens displayed Robot Winston Churchill penetrating field reporter Lu Chung, the viewer’s knowledge, just like Robot Winston Churchill’s throbbing mechanized cock, was growing by the second.

Finally, after having his way with Chung, Robot Winston Churchill made his way over to the buffet line, putting out his cigar in the caviar dish and urinating in the punch. He laughed quietly to himself. Oh yes, it was a good day.

The old man, after Robot Winston Churchill had departed once into the great abyss of timelessness, wheeled up to the crippled Doctor.

“Look,” he said, “the prophecy is true.”

The old man, the Doctor realized through the scrotum clenching pain, was right. For there, written on the poster in the blood of the day’s victims, was the Forgotten Law.

It read:

Rule Four: Do not let Robot Winston Churchill have sex with the Asian women.

If only I had known, the Doctor thought in his dying breath, if only I had known.