I swear I will never ever do a service call for a mad scientist again.
Doctor Mystery, Doctor Brainblast, Doctor… Who was it again? They’re all the same. An ego the size of Prussia, certifiably and criminally out of their gourds, and possessed of enough firepower to blow up New Babbage and then blow up it again for good measure.
And I had to be the guy one of them hired to fix a toilet.
Normally, some poor sod with a name like Fritz, Igor, or Riff Raff would get plunger duty. But Riff was busy robbing graves (or holding a dance class, I could never tell), so Doctor Whoever put out a classified on the Victorian Internet.
Wanted: Handyman. Must be good with a plunger and be immune to certain zoonotic diseases. Provide references and DNA sample.
The usual boilerplate. My great-granddad got engineered that way. And since my rent was due at the end of the week, I needed the coin. So I filled both an application and a syringe.
For some reason, I expected the lair to be much bigger on the inside.
The toilet was not a quick fix. Not because toilets are the most complicated things I’ve ever patched up. No, it was what was on, in, and around that toilet. Trust me, you don’t want to know. Let’s just say I’m packing hazmat gear the next time I play plumber. Anyway, after the last spritz of disinfectant and the last tightening of a bolt, I was done.
Boy, was I done…
But there still remained the matter of my payment. And it turned out that Doctor Whosywhatsit was short on cold hard cash. Luckily for him, his personal custom death machine was long on red hot laser. It glided forward on its hover skirt, yelled some synonym of the word “annihilate” that, due to IP laws I’m not allowed to say, and tried to make roast rabbit out of me.
So much for steady work. I think I’m going to join a union. I barely escaped with my sweet little life! And, needless to say, I’d lost my cherub-like demeanor.
The next day, a far angrier version of me showed up at the hiring hall. “Just the bunny I wanted to see,” whined the recruiting agent when he caught sight of me standing there. “Doctor Death needs someone to scrape Morlock poo out of his time machine.”
So I punched him in the throat.
Recruiters never give you the full details!
You said it. I need a “no killer automatons” clause in my contract language, PDQ!
Looks like Doctor Whats-his-name has a plunger sticking out of his death robot. Maybe he can *ameliorate* the clog next time.
(Also, it’s wonderful to see someone is reviving the somewhat lost art of throat-punching!)
Funny how the whole plunger-on-the-robot thing never came up. But I suppose then it wouldn’t be a killer death machine so much it would be a killer toilet machine. Not exactly something to be proud of for a mad scientist.
Sincerely,
Marco “Throat Puncher” Cabot, Esq.
We’re hiring at the Gangplank. Not sure we have a lot of work for a handy-bunny but might occasionally need help if you’re free. Also we don’t have any killer death robots, so there’s that.
Have you checked out back? :-)
*is suddenly afraid that Tepic is hiding somewhere and laughing at her as she walks the perimeter of the property again and again looking for death robots*
Took a gander at the job notice, and I see there’s nothing really mechanical involved. But that still sits well with me. There’s enough machinery in New B to keep any rabbit occupied from here to Doomsday. Odd jobs for an odd man, that’s me. ;)