Ruble The Robot

“You look very robotic, Russian Jenkins.”

“No one’s going to buy it, sir.”

“Bosh. I thought that it was your head on top of an artificial body for a second. Like in The Fly. I thought maybe there had been an accident with the teleportation devices.”

“We don’t have any teleportation devices, sir.”

“Of course we do. Invented them the same week as the robot.”

“We haven’t invented a robot, either, sir. You had R&D–”

“Rudyevski and Dave.”

“–3D print a janky War Machine costume, got me drunk, and stuffed me into it.”

“I had to get you drunk, Jenkins. To alleviate the pain of being Russian.”

“Literally nothing goes right for us.”

“Since Prince Oleg himself. Anyway, let’s see your dance.”

“My what, sir?”

“Your dance. I believe it is eponymous.”

“I don’t want to do the robot, sir.”

“I’ll beatbox. Do I start with the wikki-wikki noise or the heavy breathing? Oh, for fooey’s fortune, I’m just going to let loose and go with it. Get out on the dance floor, Jenkins! I’m beginning with wikki!”

“Sir.”

“WIKKI WIKKI.”

“Sir.”

“Whoopity Scoop. Jenkins, you can’t cause a commotion if your booty ain’t in motion. Get to stepping, son.”

“I can barely move in this ridiculous outfit, let alone dance, and I keep receiving small but horrible shocks on my testicles.”

“It’s a robot, Jenkins. Bound to be some electrical problems at first.”

“It’s a suit, sir. There shouldn’t be any electricity involved. They installed the power source and arranged the wiring specifically to zap my goolies.”

“Those scamps.”

“No one’s going to buy it!”

“Not if you don’t sell the performance. Acting, Jenkins! That’s what we need. It reminds me of the story once told about the great Sir Laurence Olivier and the slightly-less great Dustin Hoffman. They were filming Marathon Man, which is a lie of a title. Not a numbered bib in sight.”

“Yes, sir.”

“They are shooting a scene in which Hoffman’s character was supposed to have been awake for 24 hours. And so the actor did. On the set the next morning before the cameras rolled, Olivier noted Hoffman’s haggard appearance. Upon being informed of the reason, Olivier leaned close to Hoffman, and grabbed his crotch, and said, ‘That’s prime Jewish cockmeat.'”

“I don’t quite take the moral of the story sir.”

“The Jew is a decadent parasite.”

“Sure, sure.”

“Jenkins, listen, this is an easy gig. We’re going out there, you’ll schmooze, and we’ll sell a million units to the Russian Army. Ooh, could you do an ED209? That would play really well over here.”

“How would I do that? I have no weapons. I can’t even see with the helmet on.”

“Rudyevski and Dave have an upgrade for that.”

“Which is?”

“They’re gonna cut holes.”

“I formally protest, sir.”

“Yeah, how well does protesting usually go in Russia?”

“Hand me the helmet.”

“For the Motherland, Jenkins.”

I don’t make this shit up.