As you all know, Angus McCloud, the big-ass head bartender at Think-A-Holic lounge is a real bot fan. Not only does he shop at Bots R U more than anywhere else, he tries out just about every new bot that comes along in a futile quest for the most perfect security bot. It never works. All bots have their fatal flaws, just like human beings.
Most security bots are programmed to profile potential troublemakers (in other words, to make unfounded assumptions) and who writes these programs? but the biggest, basement-dwelling, socially-challenged techno geeks in the entire universe. Robot programmers are not only a dime a dozen in the second decade of the 21st Century, they're still a bunch of anti-social antagonists who just love to sic bots on people. While the average bot's biggest fatal flaw is that they tend to stare at people before they attack, my biggest fatal flaw is that I tend to stare back at them and that's like waving a big-ass red flag in front of a charging bull.
So, imagine my surprise when I found out that the newest bot installed by Angus McCloud, our big-ass bot-addicted head bartender, was not a security bot at all. This new bot (see pic) is a "talent scout bot", Angus informed me through a smirk I distrusted immediately. He said this particular bot was on loan from a major book publisher in Bad Apple City, back on Earth. Then he leaned forward on his elbows and whispered the rest of the story to me as I held a double shot of think-a-hol between the thumb and forefinger of both hands in my effort not to spill it before I got to enjoy it's powerful, illuminating effect.
"The scuttlebutt is," Angus whispered out of the corner of his mouth like a wizened felon on death row, "this bot, here, is looking for major indie talent in the science fiction genre. He's scouting for a relatively unknown, independent author who's written high-quality, hard sci-fi that's been ignored because his POD books aren't gathering dust on bookstore shelves, like old New York Times Bestsellers, and whose eBooks are not taking off because they're being lent to death. Say, you wouldn't happen to know any indie author who fits that bill, now, would you, lad?"
I felt like tossing the double shot of thinker's booze right into the ugly old spook's face but I kept my cool. I tossed back the ol' elixir like it was truth serum for the soul, ignoring the bubbly chaser sitting next to it. Then I answered the 400-year-old ghost of a dead Scottish poet whose own biggest fatal flaw is his uncanny ability to irritate his customers almost to the point of murder.
"No, I can't think of a single indie author, at the moment, who'd fill those shoes," I conveniently lied, feeling the think-a-hol souring in my stomach at the very sound of non-truth. "But, if that damn bot starts looking for an overlooked indie author of literary fiction, you'll let me know, won't you?"
"Sure," Angus lied back, without even breaking into a sweat. "Sure thing, Jonco."
"By the way," I asked, after slugging down the cold chaser to extinguish the fires of untruth in my lyin'-ass stomach, "does this new bot have a name?"
"Yeah," Angus replied over his right shoulder, as he readjusted the scan speed on the new bot. "I call him POD Bot."
"POD Bot?" I snickered, unable to help it. "Why in the hell do you call him POD Bot?"
"Because his circuit board was Printed On Demand," Angus replied solemnly. The ugly old prick didn't even turn around to see me storm out of the Lounge in a big huff. It'd be a cold day in hell, I lied to myself, before I'd ever set foot in Think-A-Holic Lounge again. Nursing a profound sense of ennui, I went home, put on a Jethro Tull vinyl album, and swore myself to sleep.
