Robot Camp

 

“We have a problem.”

Robots?

“Yep.”

This is camp. There’s supposed to be a few problems.”

“Right, well yeah. That explains the sumptuous accommodations, snazzy attire, and my enviable salary.”

Jürgen, do you hear laughter? I don’t hear laughter.”

“Is that because you’re deaf to my most def comedy?”

No tricky-tricks Mr. Robotics smarty-pants.

“It’s actually on my diploma—smarty-pants.”

So, what’s the problem?

“Robot bullies are the worst, well, robot bullies are the second worst.”

Reboot, re-program, run some diagnostic-thingy, just sort it out.

“Check. No effect.”

Try turning them off-off-and-back-on-again?

“Yeah, seriously. These are Robots chief not your PC or some game console.”

There, I’m tapped-out, you sort it. Had enough managerial support for one day?

“Zing, I have, and I have. Some Oppenheimer alters my fixes and re-introduces depraved yet elegant Robot bugs that replicate explosively.”

Who? Suspects?

“Napalm.”

My kid? Never!

“Ole Napalm is in the hut just now cooking up a real tasty bully-protocol to ensure the scheduled food fight tonight in the café will be brutal with baked halibut and wicked tuna.

Can you prove this accusation?

“I mean I’m not Sherlock but I do have the smarty-pants certificate with 3-D stickers. The culprit is on CCTV. It’s confirmed. I have witnesses.”

Robots?

“This is Robot Camp, chief.”

The Chief was a little bit proud of Napalm for showing some impressively disruptive ingenuity. He was more than a little frightened of her.

© Lemuel

15 May 2018

Daily Prompt, Second-helping

Short Fiction

Laughter