Big Boy

I was looking through some of my writing files, trying to find something in the way of inspiration, when I stumbled upon this. It is something I wrote a long time ago. I never submitted it anywhere and I kind of forgot about it. So I figure that I might as well do something with it. It is not in any way a work of genius, just some light hearted whimsy I wrote to pass the time. For your consideration, well, here you go:

Big Boy

The fourteen foot tall robot protector for the little farm town of Roma, stepped out of his special storing and recharging closet, and little stars sparkled off his titanium skin as the afternoon sun shown straight down upon him. He stretched out to full height and wingspan so that his hydraulics could wake up. He had been sleeping for the past three days or so, and would have continued sleeping for the next three days or so, except that someone in town had uttered those three key words that “Big Boy”, as the town of almost all women had so lovingly named him, was programmed to listen for, “Shipplekomytar Nich Blavinyous!” Which, in robot speak, means, “Help, someone has stolen my tomatoes!”

Once all systems were up and running, he unfolded his wings – which were made across state in Plane City – and took to the clouds, shouting out his signature cry so loud it echoed off the horizon. . ., “FUZZBUZZAMOOOOOOOE!”

He flew Southwest, following his internal radar – which is made up northwest, in Gadget Town, on the outskirts of Doohickie County– which had pinpointed the location of the distress call. It was about a mile and a half away at a small farmhouse just on the outskirts of town. As he landed, he was met by three very beautiful young ladies, each with long shimmering hair of a different color.

“What seems to be the problem?’ he asked, “Are you ladies missing any tomatoes?”

“Oh it was horrible!” they all said.

“This man came to the farm. He had his way with our fruits!” said the distressed brunette.

“He attacked our bushes!” said the distraught redhead.

“He stole our cherries!” said the tormented blonde.

“What?” said the robot, confused.

“He stole our cherry tomatoes!” they all said together.

“Oh.”

“Hey Big boy, could you please get our cherries back for us.”

Now Big Boy's programming told him to always take risk into account, if a job was to dangerous, he could request assistance, or refuse to help all together, that is unless it was at the behest of a beautiful young maiden, in which case, his circuitry would not allow him say no, and standing before him here today were three beautiful young maidens. Of course, that really did not matter, for this job would was more an annoyance than anything resembling difficult.

“Ladies, have no fear, I will have your cherries back to you by nightfall.”

“Oh, thank you Big Boy, you’re the greatest.” Then one by one they all blew him a kiss as he took off into the clouds shouting his signature cry. . ., “FUZZBUZZAMOOOOOOOE.”


The robot had to make no inquiries as to who it was who stole the nice young ladies tomatoes, he already knew who it was.

There was an old, falling apart, brick cottage about a mile away. It was nestled right next to the the forest on the outskirts of town, and the owner of said cottage was a strange, bent over, old man who always wore this full length, black, hooded cowl thing, with a rope tied around his waist. He had lost his mind years ago, and pretty much any nefarious deed that occurred around town could be blamed on him without being wrong. He was always trying to capture these wee little blue people who he said existed and lived in the woods. So far, he had caught nothing.

Big Boy landed about twenty feet from the front door. He amplified the volume of his voice to simulate a megaphone and said, “Gargamel. I know you are in there, and I know you have the nice young ladies’ tomato plants. If you bring them out quickly and calmly, I promise I will not hurt you.”

There was no response.

“Gargamel!” he repeated amplifying his voice even further.

“Go away!” came a response out of the cottage.

“I am not leaving without those plants.”

The door opened and a hand appeared. In the hand was the nape of a scrawny cat. The hand dropped the cat and a voice yelled out, “Go on Azrial, get him.” The cat took two steps forward, looked up, and then actually did that thing you see cats do in the cartoons when they get spooked. That thing where they arch their backs, every hair on their body stands on end, and their eyes pop two feet out of their head, all while making a retched hissing noise. Then the cat bolted.

“Stupid cat,” came the voice from the cottage.

“Gargamel? I need the plants back.”

“You can’t have them! I need them.”

“Why, pray tell, is that?”

“I have already released my potion into the forest that will kill all the Smurfberry trees. I will pass these cherry tomato plants off as the only Smurfberries left and then the Smurfs will have to come to me. And I will show the world once and for all that Smurfs exist, hehehahaha hee haa etc, etc., etc. . .”

"How absurd is this," Big Boy thought as he was simultaneously wishing he was back in his storage closet, dreaming of pistons and headlights.

“Gargamel? You have to the count of three to bring them out, or I am coming in for them.”

“One.”

Nothing.

“Two.”

Zilch.

“Three.”

Nada.

The door came off the hinges quite easily as Big Boy used his massive arms – made down south in Appendages County – to remove it from its frame. He had to stoop low to get through, but once through, the vaulted ceilings allowed him to stand fully erect. He looked around and found Gargamel cowering in the corner with his arms wrapped around the three potted cherry tomato plants. “You can’t have them, I need them.”

Big Boy didn’t say anything, he simply pointed his arm at the man. Gargamel stared with a lunatic’s amazement as the hand retracted back into the forearm and in its place appeared a fifty caliber gatling machine gun.

Gargamel’s eyes opened as wide as Mrs. Shamu did the day she gave birth to Shamu Jr. His arms slowly let go of the plants and Big Boy gathered them up and stored them in his internal stolen merchandise cabinet – which was assembled in the far east, under the watchful eye of the great Japanese master of cabinetry, Bob Vila-san. He then put the gun away, thanked Gargamel for his cooperation, wished him luck in his hunt for the wee blue people, and then left.

“FUZZBUZZAMOOOOOOOE.”


The three beautiful young ladies were all very relieved to have their cherries back.

“Oh Big Boy, you’re the greatest,” said the brunette.

“Yeah, I sure wish there was something we could do for you,” said the redhead.

“No thanks necessary ladies, I was just doing my job,” he said, turning to leave.

“Oh, but we want to thank you,” said the blonde, grabbing him by the leg. “Tell us, is it true?”

“Is what true?”

“That you weren’t really named Big Boy because you were tall,” said the brunette.

“I am not getting your meaning.”

“That you have something that most wouldn’t think a robot would need,” said the redhead.

“I am still not understanding.”

The blonde didn’t say anything, she simply reached out her hand and pointed at his crotch.

“Oh, yeah,” he said, emitting a blazing, robot blush, “I was made anatomically correct.”

“Could we see it?” they all said.

“I suppose,” there was a whirring noise as a flap opened up and out came his phallic device – which was made out West, in Los Angeles.

“Wow, cool,” said the brunette.

“It kinda is, isn’t it.”

“You call that anatomically correct, if has to be two feet long,” said the redhead.

“Well, it is adjustable.”

“Wanna come inside, Big Boy?” asked the blonde.

“Why yes, I believe I would.”


A half hour later, a sound was heard across the land. A sound so loud that it has been told to have ripped the the roof off a certain house on a certain farm in a certain town.

That sound sounded something like. . ., “FUZZBUZZAMOOOOOOOE.”


Ten minutes later, it was heard again.


Now there is probably a reason this has remained hidden in the bowels of my hard drive, but I presented it here to you (whoever you may be) mostly unchanged, the work of a novice, and, well, shit . . . , I am done making excuses for it. I hope you enjoyed it.