“Alreet Geordie lad, power ’er up, I said power ’er up – let’s get this show on t’road!”
“Phew! Just in time!” Geordie had just finished cleaning puddles of fizzy orange from other parts of the cab when he heard Willy’s barked command. “Okay, Mister Eckerslike, like!” he called back and raised his thumbs, started the engine then ducking down again he flicked the master switch on the control box to the “on” position.
And all the time inside the control box, those little droplets of orange clung with grim determination to the intricate wiring to and from the AI chip, collecting in one large blob which dripped, SPLOT, SPLOT onto the circuit board and speed governor.
Then things started to go wrong. Like an army having received its orders, it deployed over the battleground. Some blobs progressed along wires to different components on the circuit board. Others using the citric acids they contained to eat into the AI chip’s protective covering. The remainder branched off into the engine where they were turned into a gas when they smeared themselves over things like the cam-shaft housing and pistons. This would cause more damage when the gas seeped into places where liquid could not go – even more when the gas reached cooler parts of the engine and was turned into liquid again, clinging to those vital components. And you know that wire that feeds information to the AI chip is coated in a yellow polyurethane sheath, to protect it from contact with other components – well, the fizzy orange gas cooled down again to fizzy orange liquid again and came to rest on that and the acid in the fizzy orange began to eat into it. And then the thingamajig started to break up, the wotsit was soaked which meant that the artificial intelligence chip became quite unintelligent indeed.
Time, Malcolm knew, was of the essence but he could not help risking a glance over his shoulder at the “All-in-One-Der” and noticing a team of mechanics in overalls, looking over, under and around the beast. A shout rang out and white coated scientists rushed across to crowd round the machine, all nodding, scratching their heads and stroking imaginary beards, while giving sound, scientific advice to the mechanics which half of them did not understand.
“What t’perishin’ ’eck is goin’ on ’ere?” An excited, irritated Willy Eckerslike was hopping from foot to foot, firing members of the technical department on the spot and mopping sweat from his flabby face with a handkerchief. And the sun beat down making him even more blunt, bad tempered and downright insulting. Everyone else grew more and more fearful of his razor-sharp temper and his ability to fire workers on the spot. Jobs in Suburbiaville, these days, are hard to come by. Technical staff continued to swarm around the immobile machine, “Ah canna understond it mon!” Geordie sang but really he knew the cause of the problem – he was careful to wipe the evidence off the control box.
At the ninth house Malcolm heard an all too familiar voice order angrily, “Reet y’useless perishin’ rabble. We’ll ave t’go wi’ just t’ robots and nowt’ else!” And that yawning sound of the cantilever doors opening. He did not dare hazard a backward glance. Perhaps he should have, for only one of those doors opened, releasing only two of the robots – who on finding that they were only two felt very lonely indeed. Rather than diving into driveways, shredding cardboard, breaking down boxes, slurping up liquids with their nifty little vacuum attachments and doing whatever else they were capable of, they bleeped and buzzed their way round to the other cantilever door – the one which was still closed – to bleep and buzz to the other two who were still trapped inside and so keep them company. “This is one of the problems with cyber-technology,” explained the designer of the “All-in-One-Der”. “Over time, if separated and forced to operate independently, the robots may get lonely.” Apparently, later analysis revealed this had something to do with the robots’ shared artificial intelligence and the fact that they shared a central plexus. Therefore they could not work as separate units.
By this time Malcolm was at the thirteenth house, he could not help feeling pretty pleased with himself and risked a glance over his shoulder. Whatever thoughts he’d had about being smeared all over the road by that roller on the front soon disappeared, for the “All-in-One-Der” had not moved. Plus Gisele’s constant support helped keep his thoughts occupied.
“We’re a team you and me, girl!” Malcolm shouted to her, “and if I did win it would be thanks to you!”
But Gisele was not listening. “JA – KOMMEN SIE MALKY EIN – ZWEI – DREI – FOUR. WHO IST DER MANN WE KANNOT IGNORE – YA! IST MALKY!”
Back at the start line, the “All-in-One-Der” was all in. It was kaput but the one cantilever door was half-open – it would not open fully until the other door was operational – so with fingers crossed, Willy used his managerial directing authority to direct his staff unleash his final solution.
“REET!” he said, “RELEASE T’REMAININ’ TWO RUBBISH ROBOTS!”
“But we can’t, sir!” a technician answered.
“WHY THE PIGGIN ’ELL NOT. I SAID WHY THE PERISHIN’ ’ECK NOT!”
“Because, sir,” answered the boffin, “You just fired the driver and that’s his job!”
“WELL REINSTATE ’IM THEN. I SAID GI’IM ’IS JOB BACK!”
Minutes later Geordie was re-employed to open the one remaining door, by hand-crank, and reunite the two imprisoned rubbish robots with the other two that were left inside. They were overjoyed and set off mobile arm in mobile arm, which was quite touching really. “AAH!” But they didn’t sweep, vacuum and scrub pavement surfaces, they tore into front gardens and driveways ripping up shrubberies and scrubbed lawns until they were nothing more than bare patches of earth; that done, they attacked the privet hedges. In the end Willowy Lane looked like a building site. It was completely and utterly destroyed. They then turned on each other and started to BASH! into each other as though they were the remaining cars in a demolition derby. All but one robot smashed itself to smithereens on the other, using whatever attachment was on its arm to attack its partner. One, however, made it out onto the road and sped off down the lane in the direction of Malcolm and the finish line.
Malcolm – supported every step of the way by Gisele’s non-stop cheerleading – was totally focused on the job in hand as always. With an air of professional smoothness in spite of the boiling heat, he guided his unwieldy barrow to the end of Willowy Lane. Neither he nor Gisele realised they had won.
Chapter 12
Willy’s Promise
“MALKY! MALKY! You haff done it. You ist der vinner – zis ist der ende. Yahoo!”
“Crikey Gise – yer right!” He looked down the lane; the “All-in-One-Der” had not moved. It stood immobile by the start line surrounded by a mechanics and scientists in heated argument. He could not make out what was being said but many of the “technical” terms used would have made many a vicar blush. It was a bit like listening to a lesson in Anglo-Saxon for beginners.
“Oh well – if Mohammed won’t come to the mountain…” Putting one arm round Gisele’s shoulders and the other hand on “Belinda’s” pushing handle he propelled them towards the start-line, feeling very proud of himself indeed – even prouder of Gisele and “Belinda”, the two women in his life.
Malcolm had not traveled more than halfway back up the lane when, BLEEP! BUZZ! BURP! He came face-to-face with his arch enemy, or rather one of them – the other three had turned on each other way back down the lane. Having wrecked the front gardens and driveways of the first ten houses, having reduced lawns to bare earth, having reduced the herbaceous borders to scrublands, they found no more use for their mobile arms. The Devil makes work for idle hands – this being the case, they turned on, and began to dismantle, each other.
It takes a man like Malcolm to face up to one of these robot wheelie-bins with its red sensor flashing on-and-off, on-and-off, more and more quickly the angrier it gets. And these “Rubbish Robots” are not supposed to have any emotions; they are, supposedly, inanimate objects. Completely void of any feeling at all. Or they were until this whiz-kid technician, rem
ember the bloke who invented the “dirt-dispenser”? Well he fitted an ego chip into this one droid to try and give it a sense of pride in its work that matched Malcolm’s. This was the result. An angry wheelie-bin on caterpillar tracks with mobile arms, interchangeable attachments, a flashing red sensor and a bad attitude. And judging by the redness of its sensor – which was glowing brighter and redder with every bleep – this wheelie-bin’s was getting worse by the second. Plus, in reality, even though the “All-in-One-Der” was only good for scrap metal, now, the control box was still intact. And still sending out complete instructions.
This poor wheelie-bin’s AI chip just could not cope with the large block of instructions originally intended to be shared between four, from a control box that was operating as though nothing had happened at all. And it had, also, to try to somehow integrate this ego chip. Too much information – come on, you can guess what happened. It’s not rocket science.
Gisele sensed something was wrong when the robot approached. Had she forgotten something? She twisted out of Malcolm’s embrace and looked back down the lane – so that was it.
“MALKY! MALKY DARLINK! LOOK YOU HAFF NOT BROKEN DER TAPE AT DER FINISHINK LINE. IT IST STILL FLAPPINK ABOUT IN DER VIND AT DER EINGANG TO DER TOWN PARK!”
There, loosely strung across the entrance to the park, was the strip of ticker tape. The rules of the contest strictly pointed out that this tape must be broken by whoever arrived at the finish line first.
“SCHNELL! SCHNELL! IF YOU ARE NOT BREAKING DER TAPE DER KOUNCIL VILL NOT REINSTATE YOU!”
The robot bin did not understand spoken words. However it did understand the heat generated from Gisele’s emotions. And it quickly converted this into bleeps and with the added input from the ego chip that ticker tape hanging loosely between the park gates was like a red rag to a bull, it simply had to finish the task. Like a bullet it sped towards the tape. Purposefully Malcolm, with gritted teeth, took off in the same direction. He just could not let this piece of tin win. This single thought helped him keep pace with the mechanical power of the Rubbish Robot, in spite of the sun, which was getting hotter and hotter as the day wore on.
Inevitably the bin, because of its mechanical energy, reached the ticker tape first but because it shared its artificial intelligence with three other bins, it could not work out what to do with the ticker tape. It did not know whether to sweep it, store it, suck it up with its nifty little suction device, shred it or whatever else robot wheelie-bins do with ticker tape. Therefore it just stood there, eyeing up this bit of ticker tape with its flashing red sensor and scratching its head – sorry – its lid with its mobile arm. This gave Malcolm enough time to slide in rugby tackle fashion with a pair of scissors and snip the tape – the winner.
And the crowd went wild. They went bananas. Some of them even went wild bananas. They rushed down the street towards Malcolm, surrounding him so that he was engulfed in a huge mob of well-wishing, cheering, congratulating and back-slapping residents – important people, some of them.
Lifted high on the shoulders of the crowd Malcolm was ferried back down the lane to the start line just as the town clock chimed ten o’clock; there, he was set down on the raised platform. Seconds later Willy Eckerslike emerged from the throng, prodding and pushing a rather harassed Mister Bartholemew ahead of him. Poor Gordon, the more he was bullied by his boss, the more stressed out he became and the thinner and weedier he looked. “Go on, Bartholemew,” Willy threatened, “I said go on, gi’im ’is job back!”
Gordon and Willy climbed the steps to the platform and Gordon picked up the microphone. “Well, Malcolm – ha – you certainly proved us all wrong.” Willy glowered at him. “Bartholemew!?!” Mister Bartholemew cringed.
“Er – um, sorry. I meant me, you proved me wrong. And we – er – at Suburbiaville Council – um – er – think it only – ah – um – right and proper – oh I hate this – to offer you your old job back.”
To which Malcolm answered, very politely indeed, “Well the thing is, Mister Bartholemew, sir. I’ve just been havin’ a word with Missus DeCosta down the lane there – an’ she ’as offered to pay me double whatever you pay me an’ that’s just for cleanin’ one street. So thankee, Mister Bartholemew, sir. But no thankee, Mister Bartholemew, sir!”
And the crowd went even wilder, milling – as crowds often do – around the foot of the raised platform. One great, big cheering mass; but something was wrong. Where was Gisele? Malcolm caught a glimpse of her. She was just easing herself and Malcolm’s unwieldy barrow out of the back of the crowd, about to go on to the cycle track. Almost beside himself with panic, he snatched up the microphone from the Public Address system and shouted, “We’re a team, you an’ me. I couldn’t ’ave done this without you. Gisele, we belong together – will you marry me?”
A distant police siren growing gradually louder made it difficult for him to make out her answer. “Later, Malky liebe shon, but I haff to get this back before the museum opens at ten-zhirty. Zhey vill haff my D.N.A. you know.”
And the newshounds settled, like flies. Attracted by the buzz, Malcolm was a hero and heroes create news. “There they are – it’s Malcolm and that ’orrible little fat feller… Oh Malcolm – and I understand that this man sent hooligans to your home to steal your barrow!”
“Well I don’t know, ’cos it was their barra in the first place, y’see. But it was in a rotten state when I got it, all dull an’ battered – mind you that was a long time ago – so I painted it orange and add…”
“Foghorn Foggins, Suburbiaville Siren, Mister Tilsley is there any truth in the rumor that the council’s Managing Director was going to double ground rate and charge an entrance fee to Willowy Lane later this year to pay for this ‘All-in-One-Der’?”
“Well, I don’t know y’see,” Malcolm scratched his head then he noticed the loaded camera.
“No-one’s ever called me ‘mister’ before…” He whipped his trusty comb out of his pocket, ran it through his hair and smiled and pulled his eyebrows closer together.
Isn’t odd how the chance of a scoop can transform even the most languid of reporters into an Olympic runner? Well, here’s a little snippet of information to back that observation up. Ace Gossip columnist, Hugh Nehd, News of the Globe, suspecting that behind the closed doors of the affluent Willowy Lane gossip was rife, lurked suspiciously in the crowd in the hope of uncovering any little gems worthy of creative journalism. When rumors of Mister Eckerslike’s plan to double the rates and increase land taxes in Suburbiaville, reached his ears he made a bee-line for Willy, his notebook and pen at the ready.
“Hugh Nehd here, News of the Globe. Mister Eckerslike, William – mind if I call you William? Care to give us your side of the story – would you like to give us a quote; would you like to make something up?”
“No comment,” answered Mister Eckerslike. “I said no comment. But don’t think you’ve ’eard the last o’ me, young Tilsley,” promised Willy “nearly Lord Mayor of Suburbiaville” Eckerslike, from the foot of his raised platform, “Because one day in t’not too distant future, you’ll rue, I said rue t’day y’crossed swords wi’ William Eckerslike. An’ tell that chuffin’ driver he’s fired, I said. Perishin’ well sack ’im!”
THIS IS NOT THE END
Author’s note: Since publication of this book, the area in Suburbiaville known as ‘BADLANDS’ has now become officially recognised by Ordnance Survey as ‘MALCOLM`S WALLOW’
Copyright
Published by Clink Street Publishing 2015
Copyright © 2015
First edition.
The author asserts the moral right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior consent of the author, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that with which it is published
and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
ISBN: 978-1-910782-18-7
E-book: 978-1-910782-19-4
What a Load of Rubbish Page 10
