Renegade Robot

Nine

Bilj Bjurnjurd was his usual know-it-all self all the ride home.

"Don't worry," he reassured his host, "this will all blow over. You'll see. And it wasn't a snake. I know that for certain."

"Yeah," Wyatt shouted into the wind as he pedaled faster and faster, "I should listen to you, right? You, who never makes a mistake."

"I can understand your impatience."Bilj noted, “but you just have to hang in there. Time will ..."

"Spare me the homilies," Wyatt interrupted, realizing at that moment that he had no idea who Hominy Wells was or why a young man would want a picture of her on his wall. I am so out of touch, he reminded himself, and not for the first time. Being out of touch with the world at large was one of his perpetual goals. No good could come of knowing who was what or what was who. There was no shortage of images and input streaming in from the world. Quite the opposite, there was a constant deluge, none of which could be taken seriously. A million books a year and still they talked about 'literature'. A million songs and they talked about 'music theory'. A million movies and still they used the word 'film'. The convergence towards continual onslaught had been peaking for so long it was no longer possible to shut it out completely. There was a time when people had to seek out new things. Now there was no way of avoiding them.

"At least I have my Rubble Land," Wyatt thought, "where nothing and no one can reach me."

If only that were true. Rounding the corner he saw that the walls of his home were now covered in bright pink spray paint, the word "CHUMP" written over and over again across ever inch. Posters were plastered to his front door, displaying a blown-up picture of the so-called snake with the legend "$500,000 REWARD," and underneath a photo of Wyatt himself, with a smaller but still bold caption reading "FORMER CITY BOTNIK WYATT LORENZO RELEASES SNAKE INTO THE WILD".

"I did not!," he protested to no one, thinking, "It was all Jalopy's fault. I didn't do anything. I just happened to be there," though he knew, and didn't need Bilj to remind him, that he had been complicit, that he had been partially to blame, if blame there was to go around.

"Not even a snake," he spat as he kicked opened the front door, threw his bike into the hall, entered and slammed the door behind him. The floor of the hall was covered in paper, notes that must have been slipped under the front door and pushed further in by the others. They were filled with scrawled threats and warnings. Get out! Go Way! No Chumps Aloud!. We Will Frickin Kil U.

"Oh this is nice," Wyatt muttered, glancing at the phone. Sure enough it displayed bright letters announcing he had precisely seventy three voice messages. He pulled the plug on the thing and flung himself down on a chair. The wall screen was beckoning but he knew he shouldn't turn it on. It would only be more of the same.

"Blow over, eh?" He texted. Bilj was apparently not there. Whenever Bilj had something to say, he sure as hell went and said it, but if Wyatt had something to say, you'd never know if the other would be around. It had been like that since childhood. They had met online as toddlers, practically, and kept in touch ever since, never meeting in person, always a half a world apart. He had lived with this intermittent companion ever since and had grown accustomed to his ways.

"It was not a snake," Bilj messaged now.

"So what's the reward for?" Wyatt retorted.

"Maybe it's for you," Bilj replied. "Maybe you're going to get it all".