“And the fact,” said Chester A. Arthur XVII, “that the entire plaza is buried in a cloud of black smoke?”
“Because every other hotel in the plaza, and only the hotels, mind you, is on fire?” continued Queen Victoria XXX.
“Hollow… Arsonists,” replied the hotel employee, raising an eyebrow.
“Really? Hollow Midget Arsonists?”
"Yes,” said the girl. “They are exceedingly real and in no way something I just made up. Now, how many rooms will you need? Three?"
"Two should be fine,” replied Chester A. Arthur XVII with a sigh. “Billy and I can bunk together."
"Please tell me Billy’s the fat one and not the girl,” said a tall, blonde man entering the hotel lobby.
"Billy’s the fat one, not the girl."
The man was covered in dirt, wearing a singed hotel uniform and carrying a shovel.
“Dude,” said the girl behind the counter. “Your arm’s on fire.”
Also, the man’s arm was on fire.
Fifty-Six: Kill Sequence 588 Involves Nothing But a Spoon
“Target acquired. Death is imminent, human,” said the murder drone.
“Well, all right,” said Bill. “But what kind of death are you talking about?”
The drone, gears whirring and sensors glowing, halted its advance.
“Please repeat query.”
“What is death?” repeated Bill.
“Clarification: Death is imminent. Termination of life is imminent. Prepare to cease functioning, human.”
The robot resumed its clanking approach.
Bill laughed and said, “You haven’t answered my question.”
“Death is termination of life. Death is irreparable stoppage of necessary human biological functions.”
“Is it?” asked Bill. “Is it simply the… cessation of living? Or is it something else? Something more? We humans are… imbued with souls, with indomitable, eternal spirits.”
The automaton paused again.
“Searching matrix for definition of ‘soul.’ Please wait.”
“Sure thing,” said Bill. “Take your time.”
The robot whirred. Bill waited. The sounds of robotic killing machines hunting down and murdering philosophers and free-thinkers with determination, precision, and no small amount of flourish filled the atmosphere.
“Requested definition not found. Prepare for evisceration.”
“It has been well documented that this is true,” continued Bill, taking a small, panicked step back and raising his voice, “that these spirits still roam our scorched earth. By killing me, by ending my… mortal existence, you will be releasing my soul into the world. But how, I ask, how is that any different than living? I contest that simple… eradication of our human bodies is, in fact, not death. Your programming…”
“Destruction of body is sufficient. Initiate Kill Sequence 543.”
The robot raised its arm, retracting the metal hand and extending a circular saw in its place. It did the same with the other arm. Then the robot opened cavities on both sides of its chassis, extended two more arms, and repeated the hand to saw transformation.
“Oh shit.”
The murder drone stepped closer, saws spinning and the bloodlust programmed to become evident in its visual sensor becoming evident in its visual sensor.
“Listen!” pleaded Bill. “To really, truly kill me, to have me meet a final and lasting death, to fulfill your primary programming, you will need to find a way to destroy my soul. Can you? Can you do that? Are you even capable?”
The drone’s visual sensor glowed brighter. Then the robot began twitching. Then the robot’s head exploded.
“That was close…”
“Yes,” said a voice, “it was.”
The headless, smoking automaton collapsed to the ground in front of Bill, revealing a disheveled, bearded man carrying a laser rifle.
“Phil?”
“Will already died trying to confuse them,” explained Phil. “What you have to do… is ask them to calculate pi… or some other irrational number. While they’re reciting a… seemingly endless stream of numbers, you grab their weapons and destroy them.”
Bill raised his hand, as if to protest the point. Phil cut him off at the pass.
“You can’t… talk them to death, Bill. They’re robots, not undergrads.”
Bill protested anyway. He wasn’t about to give in to a completely logical comment delivered via a dated Western metaphor.
“But…”
“Do you want to die?”
“Well, Phil, do we ever really, truly…”
Phil raised the laser rifle and pointed it at Bill’s chest.
“Bill?”
“No.”
“Right. No one does. Stop being an ass.”
Phil kicked the robot, rolling it towards Bill.
“Grab the arm. The manual controls for the saw are in the wrist.”
Fifty-Seven: Stop Me If You’ve Heard This One Before…
A priest, a rabbi, and a hot dog vendor… no, wait.
An Irishman, an Italian, and a black guy were walking through the desert when…
Damn it. Hold on.
Two cloned presidents, a regenerated queen, a fallen god, a cyborg, and a suddenly very self-conscious human female, sat in a bar.
No, it was a diner. Yeah. They were sitting in a diner.
Two cloned presidents, a queen, a god, a cyborg, and a suddenly self-conscious young woman were all sitting in a diner when in walked… in walked…
Shit. Wait. They had names.
OK, got it.
Chester A. Arthur XVII, William H. Taft XLII, Queen Victoria XXX, Thor, Mark, and a suddenly very self-conscious Catrina were all sitting in a diner when in walked a sentient piece of string.
The diner host got up and stopped the string before it could go any further.
“Sorry, buddy,” he said, pointing his thumb at a sign that read “No Strings Allowed.”
“What the hell,” said the string.
“Diner rules,” said the host, shrugging and ushering the string back outside. “Nothing I can do about it.”
Mark, bristling at both the obvious racism and the economic stupidity of the gesture, called out to the man from the table.
“Man, you can’t do that. He’s got just as much right…”
“Look,” said the host, putting up his hands, “it’s not my rule. The owner, he’s crazy strict about it and I need this job. I can’t do anything about it.”
It was at this point that the string walked back in.
“Buddy,” said the exasperated diner employee, “you gotta go. Please. If my boss sees you in here…”
“Look, I just want a cup of coffee,” said the piece of string. “I can take it to go.”
“Sorry, but I can’t…”
“Oh, come on, that’s bullshit,” said Mark. “You can get him a damn cup of coffee.”
“Fuck, man, would you keep it…”
The owner of the restaurant emerged loudly from the kitchen.
“What’s going on out…”
The large, balding, diner-owning bigot, spotting the string-man, stopped mid-sentence.
“You got three seconds to get out of here, string.”
“Why the hell should I?” said the string.
“Because I own this diner and I can refuse anyone or any… thing that I want.”
“Fuck you, asshole, I haven’t…”
“Fuck me? Fuck you, you…”
“Hold up, guys, hold up,” said Chester A. Arthur XVII, raising his hands in a placating gesture. “I’ve got this.”
The cloned president got up from the table and, placing his arm around the sentient fabric cord, walked it toward the door.
“Oh, come on, Chester,” said Catrina, “you can’t seriously be…”