Robots kill robots

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“Robots kill robots,” chanted the robots as they marched, rolled, tumbled, and hopped into the arena.
The crowd roared, thirsty for blood.
In the last three seasons, they got it. Robots had to consist of 50% organic components by weight.
And not just “dead” weight, either. No useless blood like earlier models used. Critical functions had to be wired through the meat and gristle, forcing the engineers to take risks and make difficult choices.
One engineer went so far as to sacrifice his own brain for his creation.
He’s over there, on fire.
Should have used a monkey, poor soul.

Murder Offer

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Usually, door hangers offer pizza or Chinese. Two bucks off, free delivery, fifteen dollars minimum order. That kind of thing.
This wasn’t one of those. It was an offer for discount murders.
They quoted rates for various circumstances. Like security considerations. Chronic health problems. Or they’re pregnant – that kind of thing.
I dialed the number and got another dial tone.
Two minutes later, my phone rings.
“Who needs killing?” asks a voice.
“My neighbor’s dog keeps barking late at night,” I joked.
A week later, I got a bloody collar and the bill.
Funny. I don’t sleep any better.

Weekly Challenge #9 – On The Beach

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Welcome to the ninth Weekly Challenge, where I post a topic and then challenge you to come up with a 100 word story based on that topic.
The topic this week was a on the beach.
Seven stories (one rookie) was submitted this week, plus the usual madness from the planet of insane bards, Planet Z. Go ahead and listen to them by clicking on the grammophone thingy there in the left column and then vote for your favorite:

Who wrote the best story this week?
B
Gary of Easter Lemming
Elisson of blog d’Elisson
Robert Nagle of Idiotprogrammer
Gavriel of Abbagav
Andrew of Dodgeblogium
Beck of Incite
The Mystery Writer From Planet Z
  
Free polls from Pollhost.com

Thanks to everyone for sending in their stories, and I look forward to what you’ve got to write (and say) next week.
The theme will be posted shortly.

Leroy

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Leroy had a habit of shouting when he was angry. Glass-shattering loud.
Okay, so it’s not as much a habit as a reaction to stuff that angered him, but he yelled so loud, I swear you could hear it a mile away.
We took measurements, compared notes, and triangulated with satellite maps on Google. The distance you could hear Leroy shout was determined to be one Leroy.
If you were two Leroys away, you’d be twice the distance from Leroy as you could hear him shout.
But he could still pick up a phone, call you, and shout that way.

Ship

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Andrew Ian Dodge tells a tale of a mighty crew…

“Get out of here! That…thing down there is coming! I warned them! I told them that it was bad being here! I warned them…”
“What’s coming for us?” I tried to give him a talisman.
“Don’t you understand? He knows I know he’s coming, nothing can save me…”
“You can come with us…”
“No! Then I will doom you too. You must go now!” He shoved us out the door. I caught a glimpse of the books on his desk; books with horrible names. There were odd characters scrawled on pieces of paper.
Cal slammed…bolted the ship’s door…we ran free.

Green Monster

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The Yankees versus the Red Sox. What a classic matchup.
The big green monster was messing with left fielders tonight, too.
What? No… no, they were playing in Yankee stadium, not Fenway.
Oh, I’m talking about an actual big green monster. It was from outer space or some science lab.
Thing showed up, dropped over the fence, and started messing with the left fielder.
Cops tried to shoo it towards the dugout, but it messed with the cops, too.
Nobody messes with New York cops. They shot the crap out of it.
I think it’s in the hot dogs.
Mustard?

Piggy Wings

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Smith smiled and put his research paper on the pile.
“So, you grew a flying pig,” said Zambosio. “Good work, Smith.”
Smith opened the paper and pointed to a chart. “Actually, it’s just growing wings on pigs.”
“So they can’t fly?” asked Zambosio.
“No,” said Smith.
“Still,” said Zambosio, “growing a pair of wings on a pig still takes a lot of effort.”
“Actually, it’s just one wing per pig,” said Smith.
Zambosio took off his glasses. “What good is just one wing on a pig?”
“They’re quite delicious,” said Smith.
“At least pigs are tamer than buffalo,” said Zambosio.

Fisherman

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Cursing, Stavros pulled in the line and ran his fingers along the end.
As usual, it was a clean break.
The bottom of the lake was littered with Stavros’ hooks and various lengths of fishing line.
There were also some government-issue four-door sedans down there.
Every so often, another car would arrive. The driver would then get out, look around, take off his sunglasses, and ask lots of questions.
“Drunk drivers,” said Stavros, and nothing else.
Either they left or they didn’t.
Stavros tied another hook, baited it with a bloody chunk of civil servant flesh, and tossed it in.

Breakfast for breakfast

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Ethan loved strawberry pancakes.
But he never got up in time to make breakfast during the week. He’d just chug a glass of juice before running out the door.
But on the weekends, he’d take the time to mix the batter, toss in sliced strawberries, and make himself the pancakes he so dearly loved.
One day, he poured out the batter into the pan and didn’t see any strawberries in it.
He shrugged and tossed in more strawberry.
They sank into the batter, never to be seen again.
That’s when Ethan decided he liked shredded wheat cereal better.
Without strawberries.

The Wacky Adventures Of Abraham Lincoln 59

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Abe read the reports of the Sioux Uprising and grimaced.
“All of this was over some eggs in a nest?” said Lincoln. “Presposterous!”
“And whiskey,” said an aide.
“Well, whiskey’s worth fighting over,” said Lincoln. “Say didn’t we have a deal with the Dakota?”
“We did,” said the aide. “But we don’t now.”
Lincoln nodded. “I suppose we can’t just sue them over this uprising, fighting, raping, and murdering stuff,” he said. “We’re a tad busy with the South.”
“Sue the Sioux?” asked the aide. “That sounds awfully silly.”
“You’re right,” said Lincoln, giggling. “We’d better just kill them all.”