Smoke's Collections

Smoke's Collections

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WE ARE CLOSED

"Aw, geez. Come on! Another one? You've got to be kidding me!" He starts to shriek and throw random items at the robot. A wrench flies, along with two screwdrivers. Giving it a final kick, he turns around. His greasy fur is matted and chunks of it are missing. Misshapen head, razor-sharp teeth and claws, the reek of rotting flesh; he could be Frankenstein's cousin. "Whada' you want? I've already got enough failures for ten lifetimes. If you want something, then too bad. Sucks to be you, but look at the stinkin' sign. It says: WE ARE CLOSED! Use your brain, that is, if you have one. Maybe later, alright? Take a hint. Now go away!" Smoke snarls. A buzzing sound comes from another room close by, and he slams shut the two steel doors, scampering away in order to fix the malfunctioning invention. But ironically, branded into the doors are the words: Please come in. We are open.