The past manifests itself in the future; the present manifests itself in the past; the future minds its own business.
V. Shnodgrate, Renowned PL Poet
In my hand, mind you. I didn’t grip it with both hands, just because. It’s less fantastic if you grip a sword with both hands, see.
“Put that sword back on the bed–now.”
The Robots said it in unison. They were vexing beasts.
Now it was decision time.
Listen to the Robots, or not listen to the Robots.
It was that simple.
Of course the professor decided not to listen.
When I gripped that katana, I felt like a warrior of old, fighting once again on that Trojan beach, defending the city from the Greek horde–all for the sake of a woman. That part still didn’t make sense to this professor, all these years later.
Anyways and some, I was holding the katana, and I decided to use it.
Phooey to it being a decorative piece. I bet it could fight rather smartly.
“Drop it now,” the Robots ordered again, emotion devoid from their voices.
“Now,” I said, “you shall see the katana for the last time!”
No judging. It was the best closing line I could think of at the time.
The professor swung the katana towards the first Robot’s head.
An arc that beautiful was bound to decapitate most things–giant worms included.
But it wasn’t to be. The Robot swung around faster than I thought possible, dodging that lovely, beautiful arc.
I kinda tumbled past it, but this professor regained his footing in a half of a halved second.
The other Robot saw me miss and stuck out an arm, but I’d recovered by that time.
In other words, his arm moved too slow, see.
I loped it off.
The arm hit the floor with a thunk.
The Robot didn’t say anything. I don’t think the fellow could feel pain.
But that stroke did knock him off balance, and this professor acted on that.
Another one of those Trojan arcs came a humming through the air. This time, it took the Robot’s head straight off.
Score: Professor, 1 Robots, Nuttin’
I spun to engage the second Robot, but he was quicker than a hopping bunny.
And the Robot seemed crankier, too. (Probably mad I killed his Robot bro.)
The professor swung at its head, but it caught my arm, at the wrist, mind you. And with its other arm (the Robots arms were horridly strong, too) it picked me off the floor by my neck.
“You shouldn’t steal what isn’t yours,” it said.
No emotion whatsoever.
Now, at this point, the professor was suitably rather over. See, both arms were sorta out of the fight.
One thing left to do.
Warriors always spit. If they win or lose, doesn’t matter, a spit is always coming.
It landed right in the Robot’s eyes.
It dropped me, and I rammed the katana right through its middle. (Picturing Achilles all the way, don’t you know.)
The Robot collapsed; the professor had won.
End Score: Professor, 2 Robots, Double-Nuttin’
But there were two problems:
(1) I felt a warm, sticky liquid rolling down my side. I’d reopened my gun wound.
(2) The Katana was stuck in the Robot’s middle.