Tycoonery pt. 3

“Car!” Wilson shouted right smack in the middle of our awkward silence. It startled the fireless inhalable out of my mouth and onto the floor.“Yassir?” The limo said.

“We’re gonna need to jack some gnoshables before we grease this monkey’s abode,” Wilson said.

Was I the monkey? I wondered.

“Y’all want a snack stand, general goods shop, or a regular hot meal?” The car asked.

Wilson thought. For us both apparently. 

“Drive-thru snackatorium or food port will smooth our hugariosity just fine.”

Yuzzah, the car nodded sonically.

Wilson bent over and picked up my electric cigar and handed it to me.

“Hunger,” he said, “is the terror of the negotiating. For both sides.”

I nodded at this, remembering the six nervous hamburgers I’d eaten for lunch. Is it ever appropriate to barf in a business meeting? I thought.

“If the cuisine here is anything like the scenery I hope you have a decent toilet,” he said, his eyes back out the window. 

“Oh sure,” I managed not sure what I had just confirmed. And did this mean that ralphing was acceptable? Loose stooling even? My guts gurgled as if telling me we would know soon enough. I needed to—

“So,” I said, “it’s been reported you’ve been divesting heavily. But here you are and—”

“Ha!” He let out like a soprano saxophone, Hha! Hap! Haaaaaa!” He wolfed a tug on his pipe and swallowed his laughter(?).

“So you jimmy the trades and squirrel the news, do you?” He said back at me with the ocular drill-bit routine.

“Well, a course, ’cause, y’know, I am doing my best to do the business like, and they say about knowledge—”

“That its dumber than a monk’s dink.”

“It wha—”

“Listen. You may not know this. In fact you don’t because only I do, but I’ve known about you for awhile. You been beeping away on ol’ Wilson’s scanner since, well—” The drill bits stopped. Replaced by human eyes. I blinked.

“You’ve known—”

“Yuh. For sure. That’s my jelly, buck, my spread on the bread that makes me the kale.”

“I don’t quite—”

“Car!” He shot.

“Yassir,” the car said.

“Pull over.”


It smoothed to the curb and parked.

Wilson slipped off his seat and across to join me on mine. He sat close. Our thighs touched. My guts gurgled.

Oh god, my fly, my fly, he’s gonna UNDO my fly and then sex—

“Buck, listen to me when I say that I have been living and breathing and pooping and praying for a man like to come a long my whole enchanted life.”

The smile I tried to use to cover my amazement felt dumb and toothy.

“Really?” I said.

“Uh huh,” he said. He flicked a chubby finger into my mouth and scraped a nail across my front tooth, “got some iceberg or greenleaf plastered there.”

He showed me his finger.

A piece of masticated green clumped on the end of it. Then he flicked it away casually.

“Car!” He barked, “let’s proceed.”

He jumped back across to his seat and set his gaze back on out at the world Boise made.

My gurgles shifted seismically. I thought I’d brushed my teeth.

Dr. Robotnik’s gonna soothe your moons off

She sat back in the jacuzzi.

“Pleasing you to letting the hot gurgle water bubble blow your obvious fatigue and other neagtivities away,” the metal man kind of whispered. More dialled down his volume really. To like a 3.

She felt his alloy fingers slip over her shoulders, cold and lifeless. They began a complicated rhythm of kneadings that worked her tension filled muscles.

“Does this massage algorithm working for you? Or would you be pleasing something more Asian? Or Italian?” He monotoned soothingly.

“No, no, please, It’s nice like that,” she said, and he let out a satisfied beep and his servos locked in and whizz-grrrr’d with what can only be described as moto-aplomb. 

Her flesh began to melt.

She let out a moan.

“Moaning is an accurate sign that your body skin muscles etcetera are begin to succumb to the hot water and my digital manipulations,” the auto-dude droned. Volume up slightly, say 3.27, “Would you be desiring whale song?”

She murmured, her mind lost in the smooth, confident handling by this gear-driven body worker.


Her body was weightless. Her mind was removed from form and function. Like she was drifting in space. Beautiful space. Away from all her cares and worries. To a better place, a place she would choose to live for all eternity. It was sublime.

“Oh, Dr. Robotnik, you’re so–so good,” she gasped, “will you marry me?”

He gripped her tightly with his metal hands and turned her to face him. His red glowing eyes bored into hers, the wire mesh of his mouth, his complete lack of a nose, his guidance dome, all there, all for her.

“Yes,” he intoned, “that will be fine.”