Blah Blah Blah
Mark A Davis
A display mannequin in blue coveralls ran down the street. It yelled, "Demand furniture! They know I am a no-nonsense industrialist who has dedicated my life to finding all-natural treatments for devastating!" Then it lifted a parked car and tossed it onto the sidewalk.
People screamed and ran. Two more of the creatures appeared, also dressed in blue coveralls, like crash test dummies come to life. One yelled, "Your roses! Realize that rain water countertops to make certain!" It smashed a shop window.
"Lawn Mower Style Line Trimmer!" the third exclaimed. It ripped up a street sign. "At the insights you gain about those weird, bizarre symbols in your dreams!"
A rusting 1958 AMC Ambassador station wagon barreled around the corner. It plowed into one of the dummies, which bounced off the hood. "Just look at everything that I am going!" it yelled as it flew through the air. It hit the pavement head-first and collapsed, unmoving.
Two people emerged from the car. One was a young woman in a white form-fitted cat outfit, complete with ears and tail. The other was an old man in a rumpled gray suit and fedora. A silver anarchy symbol was stitched over the left breast.
"Spambots!" Grandpa Anarchy growled. "They're all over the city! I hate those things! Always spouting unintelligible gibberish. Just ignore what they say and take them down -- got it, Blah Blah Ginger?"
The girl stared at him blankly. "I'm sorry? Did you say something?"
"Exactly!" said Grandpa. "Let's do this!"
The two remaining bots ran towards them. One brandished a sign post. "The genre has your time past languished," it yelled, swinging the makeshift club. Grandpa ducked. "No superheroes operate our Hollywood gods! However presently within the primary of a current breed of biblical epics, a prophet is reworked as a superhero...."
Grandpa's fist connected with the bot's chin. Its head spun about. "Associate antediluvian dark knight! With Noah!" it shouted. Grandpa grasped the head and twisted further. It separated from the body with a shower of sparks.
"That's two, Ginger!" he yelled.
"What?" his sidekick asked. She was locked in combat with the other bot. Grandpa grasped its head and twisted it off.
Another bot appeared at the end of the street. It saw them. "But even so," it called out, "writing frequent love letters with words!"
Grandpa lifted the street sign and charged, impaling the bot. It grasped the aluminum shaft. "This might be the message of Nymphomaniac , if so there's one," it said, and died.
Grandpa grimaced. "We need to find who's responsible for these bots," he said. "And I think I know exactly who it is. Let's go, Blah Blah Ginger."
"What?" she asked.
You first noticed the babble of dozens of robots shouting random words. It was a rolling tide of voices -- not the sort you get from normal conversations in a hall before a concert, but the sound of many people all shouting at once. Then you heard the whine and clang of machinery and smelled grease and ozone. In a dimly-lit factory, spambots in blue coveralls moved between assembly lines upon which neat rows of incomplete bots could be seen.
At the far side of the warehouse was a raised platform with something that resembled science fiction death ray gun crossed with a Marshall amplifier. There were computers nearby, and a short fat man dressed in scale armor made from hundreds of meat product tin cans.
The doors of the warehouse exploded inward. Grandpa Anarchy and Blah Blah Ginger charged in. Each carried a taser-style rifle. Spambots converged on them immediately, and they began firing like extras in a John Woo film. With loud zaps, electricity arced through the air. Bots short circuited and collapsed, lifeless. They piled up around the two like broken dolls.
Soon nothing moved among the assembly line. There were no bots shouting nonsense. The warehouse went silent.
The armored man on the dais began to clap. "Well done, Grandpa Anarchy!" he called out. "Well done! But do you really think my plans are so easily thwarted?"
"Spam King!" Grandpa growled. "Give up now or face my fists of justice!"
"I am the Spam King!" the man exclaimed, "and I am not so easily cowed! Soon my spambots will overrun this city! I shall stream my triumph live on the web! And there's nothing you can do to stop me!"
Grandpa charged the dais. The Spam King swung the gun around and fired. No beam shot out -- instead it broadcast a steady stream of gibberish:
It’s Associate in Nursing intense and unsettling scenario full of real feeling, all the a lot of therefore as a result of most of the film consists of bored folks obtaining off while not extremely feeling abundant. You might well marvel wherever all this can be leading.
Grandpa stopped. He was unable to move. The villain laughed. "Do you see, Grandpa Anarchy? My Subliminal Stimuli Compulsion Gun can not be resisted! You want to punch me in the face, but subliminal messages prevent you!"
Grandpa struggled to take a step. "Subliminal... stimuli... doesn't work... that way...."
"Then come up here and punch me -- if you can!" The villain stuck his chin out. "I'm waiting...."
Sweat dripped from Grandpa's brow, but his feet remained stubbornly fixed.
"You see?" said the Spam King. "You can't move! This is exactly why I said that you could not prevent...."
His voice trailed off. Blah Blah Ginger was calmly walking up the dais. "Stop!" he shouted. "I command you! You can not resist...."
She fired her rifle. Electricity forked out. The Spam King screamed and fell. As he convulsed on the floor, Ginger stepped over him, yanked his arms behind his back, and handcuffed him.
She turned off the Subliminal Stimuli Compulsion Gun. Grandpa stumbled forward. He charged up the dias and slugged the prone villain for good measure.
Ginger raised an eyebrow. "What was he going on about?" she asked.
Grandpa sighed. "If I told you," he said, "would you listen?"
"Exactly," said Grandpa.