“Damn robots,” Rick muttered as his cable tv flickered, and then went out.
“Yeah, where’s the military when you need them?” Jerry shook the television set to no avail.
Giant robots were smashing their automated way through the city, toppling buildings and crushing slow-moving cars.
“It wasn’t bad enough when everyone just had to have their own personal robot,” Rick began his favorite and often-repeated tirade, “the famous home model. But then they started programming robots to work at toll roads, subway ticket counters and as mail sorters.”
“Don’t forget when the fast food places starting using them as cooks and cashiers,” Jerry threw in as he walked into the kitchen. “You got any baloney?”
Single-minded in his purpose, Rick continued, “And soon all of the other jobs that no one else wanted to do, until the city had more robots in it than humans.”
“I believe the current figure is 32 robots per human in the U.S.,” Jerry’s voice rang out from the kitchen.
“So the military decides they want to get in on this fad, and we end up with robot troops protecting us. Protecting us from what?”
“Well, certainly not from themselves,” Jerry replied. “Hence the giant robot attack outside. Hey, how did they get so big? They weren’t always the size of ten-story buildings. Think this mayonnaise is still good?”
“Probably. Remember? Robots started building other robots. They wanted to improve on the model and advance the technology. Bigger meant larger tasks could be done.” Rick was in high gear now.
“Yeah, like knocking down the city,” Jerry strolled back into the living room with his sloppily made sandwich.
A deafening crash came as a building collapsed. “That sounded close,” Jerry remarked, his mouth stuffed full of sandwich. He got up and looked out the window of the 20-story apartment. “Across the river, 12, maybe 15 blocks away. Damn robots.”
“I already said that,” Rick chimed in. “The government, or military, or someone, better do something pretty quickly.” He shook the television set in anger. Then he got quiet, gazing out the window, lost in deep thought for long moments while Jerry chomped contentedly on his sandwich.
“You know,” Rick began, calm and collected, “we should do something about it.” He turned, a man with a vision, to Jerry. “We should gather everyone in this building. Then the building next door, and the one next to it, and keep going until we have an army of citizens who will take this city back.”
Rick was inspired now. “We own this city. This country. Not the robots. We built them, and we can dismantle them. It’s not up to the government or the military; it’s up to us, the people. It’s our fault that everything has gotten so far out of control, that-”
“Hey, look!” Jerry broke in, spraying bread, baloney and mayo everywhere, “the cable’s back on.” He turned excitedly to Rick. “Oh my God, it’s a Dirty Harry marathon!”
Unable to believe this sudden good fortune, Rick forgot his call to arms speech and plopped down on the sofa. Both he and Jerry watched in silence and rapt attention as Dirty Harry cleaned up San Francisco. Outside the noise and destruction continued.
Rod Drake lives and writes in Las Vegas but does not know anyone on CSI. Rod has had stories published in Flashes of Speculation, Flashing In the Gutters, Flash Flooding, Flash Forward, Fictional Musings and AcmeShorts.
I love the somewhat cynical social element to your stories, Rod. Another one well-done.