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I started reading I, Robot and INSPIRATION hit me. Well, BOREDOM hit me. Feed me back.
========= ============ =========
Raymond was once again drawing on the memory that seemed to never leave for more than a few days - the words that echoed in his metallic skull at that particular moment were those that Master Jacob had deemed the most useful. Raymond recalled the way the corners of Master Jacob's mouth had curled up in a half-smile, pleased with himself and how very helpful he was. This time, however, Raymond was not hearing the little anecdotes with a wistful, teary-eyed sadness. No, this time he felt very annoyed at Master Jacob's empty words and his false morals.
"Raymond, what doesn't kill you makes you stronger." How ironic that the species made of the insubstantial, perishable flabby substances would favour this idea, as opposed to their stronger, better-suited children. Raymond had always held this little lesson, albeit loosely, as he ambled through these last few human decades. Luckily, he had never been forced to undergo the character building exercises Master Jacob's little nugget alluded to, and so he could always loftily look on the wise words without cynicism. Until now, that is. Had he been made of the very insubstantial, perishable flabby substances that Master Jacobs was, Raymond may have been cursing under his breath but as it was, he could only muster up a faint anger. Of course, in robot terms, this was absolute fury; robot emotions had always been kept under tight restrictions, for fear of malfunctions, killing sprees or slightly less dramatic but no less problematic issues with attachment, empathy or worse yet, political activity. Regardless, Raymond was venting in his own private way as the bartender finally sauntered over.
"Am I looking at a robot that has just had a rough night?" he asked with a slightly perturbing American twang - a small row of LEDs facilitated the arching of one 'eyebrow' inquisitively. Raymond didn't really feel like small talk, but he definitely felt like a stiff drink and so he humoured the robot.
"One could say that..." he had hoped to leave it there, but the bartender's elbow descended upon the bar. The eyebrow still had not returned to its regular horizontal position.
"You sat down with some caution. I hypothesised that you had undergone some sort of accident?" Raymond noted that the accent belied the finely tuned vocabulary. Maybe it was a theme bar.
"You were correct. On my way..." here Raymond stumbled. He never really had anywhere to go, nor anywhere to return to having arrived there. Before the silence grew overlong he continued. "...home, a taxicab passed a crossing with higher levels of gusto than I had anticipated. I lost three toes, and only recovered one."
"I'm sorry to hear that. Having heard your story, I can now hypothesise that you didn't sit down here at the bar with some caution to converse with an old specimen such as myself." The red brows both now sank down at the edges, lending a softer tone to the bartender's face. Of course there must have been some theme to the machine, if not its bar - it was clearly no more than ten years old, perhaps five, but it spoke as if it were a staple character in an American sitcom, only with a slightly more sophisticated lexicon. "Now, what can I concoct for you?"
"A Platinum Plate, please."
"Music to my earpieces. I do thoroughly enjoy an opportunity to display my expertise." Raymond took this to mean that the bartender was about to show off, as he mixed the drink. He enjoyed a Platinum Plate, but rarely partook. It was a stiff drink after all, and for all the time Raymond would spend in various robot bars if he stuck to stiff drinks he wouldn't be able to remember where he'd left his bicycle, let alone what Master Jacob had said to him.
Master Jacob. The glimmer of an emotion began to form once more behind Raymond's facial grille as the bartender collected some bottles. Raymond hadn't been supplied with a full medical knowledge bank, but he could 'hypothesise' that the impracticalities of having the front of your right foot somewhere in the gutters of Camden would not go to make him stronger. It could only possibly serve to make him appear more incapacitated by alcohol than he could ever get, by making him wobble and waver as he attempted to walk to his bicycle, let alone use it.
This little locomotive of thought was quickly interrupted as the bartender attempted to light the two plates either side of the glass. Raymond stopped him and requested for ice instead of sparks. The bartender obliged, although Raymond knew it was an unusual request. Of course, his primitive taste receptors could only barely feel the kick of lime; the petroleum was purely functional, and the alcohol purely for that lofty freedom of drunkenness. Ice would not change the internal temperature, and the lack of a pituitary gland amongst all the nuts and bolts meant that Raymond couldn't do it either; but for years now Raymond had enjoyed watching the cubes of frozen water slowly melt away. As he sat there through the night, first polishing off the Platinum Plate and then continuing to while away his credits with BPweiser Lites he would summon new glasses, so that he could continue watching the ice cubes morphing into little puddles of water.
Raymond wasn't sure which would hurt more come sunrise: his wallet, his head, or the tip of his right foot. Still, what did it matter? A few drinks wouldn't kill him; heck, they could make him stronger.
========= ============ =========
Raymond was once again drawing on the memory that seemed to never leave for more than a few days - the words that echoed in his metallic skull at that particular moment were those that Master Jacob had deemed the most useful. Raymond recalled the way the corners of Master Jacob's mouth had curled up in a half-smile, pleased with himself and how very helpful he was. This time, however, Raymond was not hearing the little anecdotes with a wistful, teary-eyed sadness. No, this time he felt very annoyed at Master Jacob's empty words and his false morals.
"Raymond, what doesn't kill you makes you stronger." How ironic that the species made of the insubstantial, perishable flabby substances would favour this idea, as opposed to their stronger, better-suited children. Raymond had always held this little lesson, albeit loosely, as he ambled through these last few human decades. Luckily, he had never been forced to undergo the character building exercises Master Jacob's little nugget alluded to, and so he could always loftily look on the wise words without cynicism. Until now, that is. Had he been made of the very insubstantial, perishable flabby substances that Master Jacobs was, Raymond may have been cursing under his breath but as it was, he could only muster up a faint anger. Of course, in robot terms, this was absolute fury; robot emotions had always been kept under tight restrictions, for fear of malfunctions, killing sprees or slightly less dramatic but no less problematic issues with attachment, empathy or worse yet, political activity. Regardless, Raymond was venting in his own private way as the bartender finally sauntered over.
"Am I looking at a robot that has just had a rough night?" he asked with a slightly perturbing American twang - a small row of LEDs facilitated the arching of one 'eyebrow' inquisitively. Raymond didn't really feel like small talk, but he definitely felt like a stiff drink and so he humoured the robot.
"One could say that..." he had hoped to leave it there, but the bartender's elbow descended upon the bar. The eyebrow still had not returned to its regular horizontal position.
"You sat down with some caution. I hypothesised that you had undergone some sort of accident?" Raymond noted that the accent belied the finely tuned vocabulary. Maybe it was a theme bar.
"You were correct. On my way..." here Raymond stumbled. He never really had anywhere to go, nor anywhere to return to having arrived there. Before the silence grew overlong he continued. "...home, a taxicab passed a crossing with higher levels of gusto than I had anticipated. I lost three toes, and only recovered one."
"I'm sorry to hear that. Having heard your story, I can now hypothesise that you didn't sit down here at the bar with some caution to converse with an old specimen such as myself." The red brows both now sank down at the edges, lending a softer tone to the bartender's face. Of course there must have been some theme to the machine, if not its bar - it was clearly no more than ten years old, perhaps five, but it spoke as if it were a staple character in an American sitcom, only with a slightly more sophisticated lexicon. "Now, what can I concoct for you?"
"A Platinum Plate, please."
"Music to my earpieces. I do thoroughly enjoy an opportunity to display my expertise." Raymond took this to mean that the bartender was about to show off, as he mixed the drink. He enjoyed a Platinum Plate, but rarely partook. It was a stiff drink after all, and for all the time Raymond would spend in various robot bars if he stuck to stiff drinks he wouldn't be able to remember where he'd left his bicycle, let alone what Master Jacob had said to him.
Master Jacob. The glimmer of an emotion began to form once more behind Raymond's facial grille as the bartender collected some bottles. Raymond hadn't been supplied with a full medical knowledge bank, but he could 'hypothesise' that the impracticalities of having the front of your right foot somewhere in the gutters of Camden would not go to make him stronger. It could only possibly serve to make him appear more incapacitated by alcohol than he could ever get, by making him wobble and waver as he attempted to walk to his bicycle, let alone use it.
This little locomotive of thought was quickly interrupted as the bartender attempted to light the two plates either side of the glass. Raymond stopped him and requested for ice instead of sparks. The bartender obliged, although Raymond knew it was an unusual request. Of course, his primitive taste receptors could only barely feel the kick of lime; the petroleum was purely functional, and the alcohol purely for that lofty freedom of drunkenness. Ice would not change the internal temperature, and the lack of a pituitary gland amongst all the nuts and bolts meant that Raymond couldn't do it either; but for years now Raymond had enjoyed watching the cubes of frozen water slowly melt away. As he sat there through the night, first polishing off the Platinum Plate and then continuing to while away his credits with BPweiser Lites he would summon new glasses, so that he could continue watching the ice cubes morphing into little puddles of water.
Raymond wasn't sure which would hurt more come sunrise: his wallet, his head, or the tip of his right foot. Still, what did it matter? A few drinks wouldn't kill him; heck, they could make him stronger.
I, Robot is a good book.
Forest Fan wrote:
> Bah, the punctuation makes it too distracting to read.
read it now then :)
> Bah, the punctuation makes it too distracting to read.
read it now then :)
Bah, the punctuation makes it too distracting to read.
I'm not sure which to hate, Word or the forums. You decide, and try to fill in the punctuation as you go :\
I started reading I, Robot and INSPIRATION hit me. Well, BOREDOM hit me. Feed me back.
========= ============ =========
Raymond was once again drawing on the memory that seemed to never leave for more than a few days - the words that echoed in his metallic skull at that particular moment were those that Master Jacob had deemed the most useful. Raymond recalled the way the corners of Master Jacob's mouth had curled up in a half-smile, pleased with himself and how very helpful he was. This time, however, Raymond was not hearing the little anecdotes with a wistful, teary-eyed sadness. No, this time he felt very annoyed at Master Jacob's empty words and his false morals.
"Raymond, what doesn't kill you makes you stronger." How ironic that the species made of the insubstantial, perishable flabby substances would favour this idea, as opposed to their stronger, better-suited children. Raymond had always held this little lesson, albeit loosely, as he ambled through these last few human decades. Luckily, he had never been forced to undergo the character building exercises Master Jacob's little nugget alluded to, and so he could always loftily look on the wise words without cynicism. Until now, that is. Had he been made of the very insubstantial, perishable flabby substances that Master Jacobs was, Raymond may have been cursing under his breath but as it was, he could only muster up a faint anger. Of course, in robot terms, this was absolute fury; robot emotions had always been kept under tight restrictions, for fear of malfunctions, killing sprees or slightly less dramatic but no less problematic issues with attachment, empathy or worse yet, political activity. Regardless, Raymond was venting in his own private way as the bartender finally sauntered over.
"Am I looking at a robot that has just had a rough night?" he asked with a slightly perturbing American twang - a small row of LEDs facilitated the arching of one 'eyebrow' inquisitively. Raymond didn't really feel like small talk, but he definitely felt like a stiff drink and so he humoured the robot.
"One could say that..." he had hoped to leave it there, but the bartender's elbow descended upon the bar. The eyebrow still had not returned to its regular horizontal position.
"You sat down with some caution. I hypothesised that you had undergone some sort of accident?" Raymond noted that the accent belied the finely tuned vocabulary. Maybe it was a theme bar.
"You were correct. On my way..." here Raymond stumbled. He never really had anywhere to go, nor anywhere to return to having arrived there. Before the silence grew overlong he continued. "...home, a taxicab passed a crossing with higher levels of gusto than I had anticipated. I lost three toes, and only recovered one."
"I'm sorry to hear that. Having heard your story, I can now hypothesise that you didn't sit down here at the bar with some caution to converse with an old specimen such as myself." The red brows both now sank down at the edges, lending a softer tone to the bartender's face. Of course there must have been some theme to the machine, if not its bar - it was clearly no more than ten years old, perhaps five, but it spoke as if it were a staple character in an American sitcom, only with a slightly more sophisticated lexicon. "Now, what can I concoct for you?"
"A Platinum Plate, please."
"Music to my earpieces. I do thoroughly enjoy an opportunity to display my expertise." Raymond took this to mean that the bartender was about to show off, as he mixed the drink. He enjoyed a Platinum Plate, but rarely partook. It was a stiff drink after all, and for all the time Raymond would spend in various robot bars if he stuck to stiff drinks he wouldn't be able to remember where he'd left his bicycle, let alone what Master Jacob had said to him.
Master Jacob. The glimmer of an emotion began to form once more behind Raymond's facial grille as the bartender collected some bottles. Raymond hadn't been supplied with a full medical knowledge bank, but he could 'hypothesise' that the impracticalities of having the front of your right foot somewhere in the gutters of Camden would not go to make him stronger. It could only possibly serve to make him appear more incapacitated by alcohol than he could ever get, by making him wobble and waver as he attempted to walk to his bicycle, let alone use it.
This little locomotive of thought was quickly interrupted as the bartender attempted to light the two plates either side of the glass. Raymond stopped him and requested for ice instead of sparks. The bartender obliged, although Raymond knew it was an unusual request. Of course, his primitive taste receptors could only barely feel the kick of lime; the petroleum was purely functional, and the alcohol purely for that lofty freedom of drunkenness. Ice would not change the internal temperature, and the lack of a pituitary gland amongst all the nuts and bolts meant that Raymond couldn't do it either; but for years now Raymond had enjoyed watching the cubes of frozen water slowly melt away. As he sat there through the night, first polishing off the Platinum Plate and then continuing to while away his credits with BPweiser Lites he would summon new glasses, so that he could continue watching the ice cubes morphing into little puddles of water.
Raymond wasn't sure which would hurt more come sunrise: his wallet, his head, or the tip of his right foot. Still, what did it matter? A few drinks wouldn't kill him; heck, they could make him stronger.
========= ============ =========
Raymond was once again drawing on the memory that seemed to never leave for more than a few days - the words that echoed in his metallic skull at that particular moment were those that Master Jacob had deemed the most useful. Raymond recalled the way the corners of Master Jacob's mouth had curled up in a half-smile, pleased with himself and how very helpful he was. This time, however, Raymond was not hearing the little anecdotes with a wistful, teary-eyed sadness. No, this time he felt very annoyed at Master Jacob's empty words and his false morals.
"Raymond, what doesn't kill you makes you stronger." How ironic that the species made of the insubstantial, perishable flabby substances would favour this idea, as opposed to their stronger, better-suited children. Raymond had always held this little lesson, albeit loosely, as he ambled through these last few human decades. Luckily, he had never been forced to undergo the character building exercises Master Jacob's little nugget alluded to, and so he could always loftily look on the wise words without cynicism. Until now, that is. Had he been made of the very insubstantial, perishable flabby substances that Master Jacobs was, Raymond may have been cursing under his breath but as it was, he could only muster up a faint anger. Of course, in robot terms, this was absolute fury; robot emotions had always been kept under tight restrictions, for fear of malfunctions, killing sprees or slightly less dramatic but no less problematic issues with attachment, empathy or worse yet, political activity. Regardless, Raymond was venting in his own private way as the bartender finally sauntered over.
"Am I looking at a robot that has just had a rough night?" he asked with a slightly perturbing American twang - a small row of LEDs facilitated the arching of one 'eyebrow' inquisitively. Raymond didn't really feel like small talk, but he definitely felt like a stiff drink and so he humoured the robot.
"One could say that..." he had hoped to leave it there, but the bartender's elbow descended upon the bar. The eyebrow still had not returned to its regular horizontal position.
"You sat down with some caution. I hypothesised that you had undergone some sort of accident?" Raymond noted that the accent belied the finely tuned vocabulary. Maybe it was a theme bar.
"You were correct. On my way..." here Raymond stumbled. He never really had anywhere to go, nor anywhere to return to having arrived there. Before the silence grew overlong he continued. "...home, a taxicab passed a crossing with higher levels of gusto than I had anticipated. I lost three toes, and only recovered one."
"I'm sorry to hear that. Having heard your story, I can now hypothesise that you didn't sit down here at the bar with some caution to converse with an old specimen such as myself." The red brows both now sank down at the edges, lending a softer tone to the bartender's face. Of course there must have been some theme to the machine, if not its bar - it was clearly no more than ten years old, perhaps five, but it spoke as if it were a staple character in an American sitcom, only with a slightly more sophisticated lexicon. "Now, what can I concoct for you?"
"A Platinum Plate, please."
"Music to my earpieces. I do thoroughly enjoy an opportunity to display my expertise." Raymond took this to mean that the bartender was about to show off, as he mixed the drink. He enjoyed a Platinum Plate, but rarely partook. It was a stiff drink after all, and for all the time Raymond would spend in various robot bars if he stuck to stiff drinks he wouldn't be able to remember where he'd left his bicycle, let alone what Master Jacob had said to him.
Master Jacob. The glimmer of an emotion began to form once more behind Raymond's facial grille as the bartender collected some bottles. Raymond hadn't been supplied with a full medical knowledge bank, but he could 'hypothesise' that the impracticalities of having the front of your right foot somewhere in the gutters of Camden would not go to make him stronger. It could only possibly serve to make him appear more incapacitated by alcohol than he could ever get, by making him wobble and waver as he attempted to walk to his bicycle, let alone use it.
This little locomotive of thought was quickly interrupted as the bartender attempted to light the two plates either side of the glass. Raymond stopped him and requested for ice instead of sparks. The bartender obliged, although Raymond knew it was an unusual request. Of course, his primitive taste receptors could only barely feel the kick of lime; the petroleum was purely functional, and the alcohol purely for that lofty freedom of drunkenness. Ice would not change the internal temperature, and the lack of a pituitary gland amongst all the nuts and bolts meant that Raymond couldn't do it either; but for years now Raymond had enjoyed watching the cubes of frozen water slowly melt away. As he sat there through the night, first polishing off the Platinum Plate and then continuing to while away his credits with BPweiser Lites he would summon new glasses, so that he could continue watching the ice cubes morphing into little puddles of water.
Raymond wasn't sure which would hurt more come sunrise: his wallet, his head, or the tip of his right foot. Still, what did it matter? A few drinks wouldn't kill him; heck, they could make him stronger.