By Tony Owens
Klinko, the King of Klowns, watched as the robot juggled a number of watermelons and a chainsaw.
‘That’s impressive,’ he said.
The robot’s creator, Dr Ernest Frankenstein, beamed. ‘Given my family history, I thought robotics would be a logical career path.’
‘I guess so, but aren’t you worried about that history?’
Ernest was silent for a moment. They stood in the car park outside EF Robotronics Laboratory, situated between Jimmy Whale’s Discount Tool Shed and the illuminating delights of Boris’s Tiki Torch Bazaar. A worker was casually varnishing a shipment of new Tiki Torches and placing them onto a palette to dry.
‘The only suggestion I’d make,’ said Klinko, ‘would be for your robotic friend to lose the cigarette.’
Indeed, the robot had an unlit smoke dangling from the air intake valve where the mouth was painted on.
‘I thought it would make him look a bit more human, less menacing.’
‘True, but if we’re going to take him on at Hernandez’s Circus of Terror, we’ve got to abide by the strict anti-smoking laws. Anyway, what sort of signal does that send to the kids?’
Ernest nodded and made some adjustments to the controls. With an almost human-like sigh, the robot removed the cigarette from its ‘mouth’ and tossed it away. It flew with superhuman speed, glowing as it encountered the friction of the atmosphere and burst into flame. It alighted on the palette, in more ways than one. Several freshly treated torches burst into flame.
‘So how is he powered?’ asked Klinko, both men oblivious to the conflagration that had taken hold.
‘Inside the head is a metallic grid on which I’ve grafted a brain tissue cell line. It’s like flowers growing on a trellis, but sentient.’ Ernest seemed pleased with his little analogy though Klinko was beginning to feel a little uneasy. He looked across the carpark and noticed a sign at the tool shop he hadn’t picked up on before — ‘Pitchfork Sale - Up to 75% Off.’ A healthy looking crowd had gathered to take advantage of the discounted garden implements
‘This cell line, where exactly did you get it?’
‘It was bequeathed to me as part of my grandfather’s estate. He inherited it from his father and so on.’
Both men looked up now as a fire alarm was going off at the torch shop. Workers frantically tried to save some of the burning torches from the palette. By this time a crowd of shoppers had emerged from the hardware store, holding their newly purchased pitchforks aloft for safety. Sirens could be heard in the distance. People began to run in the direction of the only avenue available for escape — straight towards Klinko, Dr Frankenstein and his creation.
‘This situation is not developing quite as optimally as I might have hoped,’ said the doctor.
The murmuring crowd of pitchfork wielding customers and blazing torch holding workers flooded up the hill. The monster, accessing some genetic memory, was becoming visibly agitated.
‘We need to get to the fire evacuation point,’ said Klinko. ‘Where is it?’
Before Ernest answered, Klinko knew with a sinking feeling what he was going to say.
‘Just up there,’ he replied. ‘Next to the old windmill.’
‘Of course,’ muttered Klinko. They started to run.
About the Author
Tony Owens
Tony Owens is an ESL teacher living in Brisbane with his wife and son.
His short fiction has appeared in the anthologies In Fabula-Divino, Zombies Ain’t Funny,18, Darkest Depths and Andromeda Spaceways Magazine 2017’s Best Stories.
He is a proud member of the Vision Writers Group and his ultimate ambition is to find the literary sweet-spot between H.P. Lovecraft and P.G. Wodehouse.