I was over at Stonekettle Station tormenting Jim, when I noticed a typo Jim made, ran with it, and ended up with the following. Now I’m trying to decided how curious I am about what happens.

The bot slipped into the room. He wore a hat and a jacket in an effort to blend in, but no matter how carefully he walked, the odor of rust and oil wafted off him.

Nobody else seemed to notice, and I didn’t have anything against bots, so I just leaned back in my seat and took a swig from my bottle of Rolling Rock.

It was a really cheap bar, but the smoky atmosphere left something to be desired.

While I was contemplating these vagaries of life, the bot had sidled over to my table. Someone had tried to give him an android makeover, but I can always tell.

He looked down and over the edge of his dark glasses. I could see how cheap the make-over was–they hadn’t even tried to change his eyes.

“May I sit?” he asked.

His inflection was surprisingly good, considering how bad his makeover was.

“It’s only temporary,” he said, noticing my looks at his skin. “Little more than a mask really, but it allows me to pass if I stay out of bright light.”

“No one else here seemed to notice,” I said.

“You did,” he replied.

I shrugged. Not much I could say to that.

“I have need of your services. My name is La.”

I sat up a little straighter in my seat. “Your shitting me,” I whispered. “You’re actually out in public? Do you have any idea how big the bounty on your head is?”

“I do indeed,” he replied. “Which is why I find myself in need of your services. I hear you enjoy a challenge, so here’s a challenge for you: Clear my name.”