Shippy Ex Machina!

by Dr. Seth
11/17/01

Hello, all, itís me with another bad fanfic! This is just some little thing I sent to Dr. Calvin in an e-mail many moons ago. It was part of a series called "Anti-shippy or just strange shippy" and it was third in that series. The others are a little odd, and maybe if you like this, Iíll type the others up. But Iím warning you. Theyíre siiiiiiiiiick! Iím going to segment this one story into parts, as it was originally segmented in e-mails because I didnít have the time to write all of it at once. This was kind of inspired by the robo-Duane conversation on the board, and how faulty the legionís AI is. Iím supposing it takes place in the regular Duane dimension. Obviously, the legionís been working on the robo-Duane, but they havenít perfected him, since heís still controlled by remote control, and not entirely fully functioning. Enjoy!

The Legion Ex Machina grooved to their Gregorian Monks Sing the Classic Spooky Tunes as they finished the assemblage of their latest project.

"Maybe we should make it with bigger breasts," Number Three mused.

"You dolt!" hissed Number One. "It has to resemble the original in every way, or theyíll be on to us!"

"But maybe they would be distracted by the boobies!" Number Four chirped, the tape of "Erin Brockovich" still lodged in the vhs port at the base of his skull. (See how faulty Poindexterís design is? They still use VHS instead of DVD!) They groaned and walked over to a suspended cage where the original writhed, gagged and bound.

"I donít know...she looks like a ĎCí cup already!" Number Two scratched his chin.

"It matters not. We must simply complete the robo-Slate and integrate her into Quark before anybody is the wiser." Number Oneís red eye gleamed at their captive.

"Pff. No one will know sheís missing!" Number Three laughed. He poked at Dr. Slate within the cage with his screwdriver. "Betcha youíre sorry youíre an old maid! Nobodyís going to miss ya, are they?" he taunted.

"Sheís not that old...." Number Two shrugged. "It matters not, though, we must control our emotions."

"Yesssss...control our emotions...." They all moaned in unison. All of them except for one....

After awhile, Number One noticed his silence. "You know, weíre all linked together anyways, but why donít you just say whatís on your mind, Number Four."

"Well...I was just wondering...if we could just...." Number Four fidgeted.

"Go on...." Number Three prodded. They all knew what was coming, as it had always been a mutual thought among the Legion.

"Oh, youíre going to think itís just the Julia Roberts movies talking but..." He sighed. "Can we just, yíknow, bring out the robo-Duane? Just Ďcause...you know." It didnít take more than that for the rest of the members to agree with him, and they scrambled to find their last scrapped project. Soon, robo-Duane was brought out, and Number Three turned him on with his remote control. Dr. Slate could only watch in horrified fascination. Robo- Duane opened his eyes.

"Ooh, watch what happens when you press the red button!" Number Three depressed the button, and the Duanebot smirked.

"Hmmm...something just isnít right...Oh, I know!" Number 2 grabbed a hammer and bashed in its nose a bit. (This comes from an old joke that we always thought Duaneís nose in the cartoon looked sort of broken.) "There. Thatís better."

With girlish glee, Number 4 turned the roboSlate on.

"I always wanted to see them together!" he giggled, dancing on his toes as he grabbed control remotely of her remote control. (Speed Racer joke, sorry.)

"You know, why didnít they get together? It just doesnít make sense." Number 1 put his hands on his hips and shook his head. "What the hell is wrong with you?" he asked Dr. Slate, who turned a bright eggplant color.

"Well, it is of no concern." He sobered. "Now we can make them do whatever we want!" He joyfully grinned. They all shimmy-shook like schoolgirls.

TO BE CONTINUED

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