An Original short written by this month's Spotlight Author: PhonerionBallznevsky. 

1

Davin MacGillicunty—heart-throb to millions of squealing dazed and confused middle-aged ladies—looked at his huge audience of red-in-the-face women wringing their saucer hats as they struggled to stand. He smirked, knowing how easily he could get into the frilly lace drawers of all these rich snooty babes, then said with a wink: "This next number is for all you beautiful women out there, and what perfection it would be to make sweet endless love to you."

        As expected (and calculated by his manager), a high-pitched din rippled throughout the concertgoers, starting from one shrill dame in the centre—who quickly fell unconscious, due to the phenomenon officially known as "Cunty-Mania"—and spreading outward from lass to lass.

        Good thing Dav had ear-plugs. The ladies who did not would be experiencing a permanent damage to their hearing, which they'd first become aware of tomorrow at work. He turned away from the girls going gaga and faced the rest of the band—Tes-Locket Of My Heart—and asked, "What's the next song?"

        Seth Hardehar—drums—shrugged and jammed a drumstick deep into his ear, digging for sweet golden ear-honey. Dav knew the fool would eventually hit his brain and die, probably during a concert, too... Hell, maybe even during a drum-solo. Wouldn't that be a blessing.

        Colm O'Danger (real-name: O'Brien)—bass—lit up a Tes-Smoke and tried to look cool, blowing two streams of water vapour through his nostrils and frantically stroking his long-necked bass-guitar. Evidently he succeeded, as a black brassiere landed on top of his head. He took a whiff of it and then shoved it down his pants, an act which was followed by a million simultaneous shrieks of lusty longing.

        Tarston MacGillicunty—guitar—was too busy fooling with his fancy set of pedals to notice Dav had forgotten the set-list. He pushed up his eyeglasses (Tes-Tacles: revolutionary for their electric-powered lenses, capable of altering the prescriptions, on the fly, to suit the ever-changing eyes) and stomped on the flanger pedal.

        None of those guys were any help at all. It was Tes-Locket Of My Heart's dancer—Dick "Smoky" Dangles—who was the saviour of the show. He nodded coolly at Dav and mouthed, "Lick My Tesla Coil, Doll-Face."

        Ah, that's right. "Licky Surprise," as he and the boys colloquially called it. Dav turned around to face the crowd and popped his collar. "Anyone want... a jolt!?" He violently jerked his arms around, like he'd been shocked.

        The crowd shouted that they did, in fact, want a jolt.

        "Then... LICK MY TESLA COIL, DOLL-FACE!"

        Screams rumbled the stadium walls upon hearing those words. The song was a hit. It had topped the charts for two years straight, only to be pushed aside for another Tes-Locket Of My Heart song: "Electrified By Love." They had a theme going.

        The first two flanger-laden power-chords were punched out, the bass began bouncing around in a kaleidoscopic groove, a series of tom-tom barks led to snare rolls and cymbal crashes, and Smoky started his routine of erotic pelvic thrusts directed at the faces of those in the front-row. Before any words were crooned by Dav, a moshpit opened in the middle of the audience and a dozen ladies linked arms and safely spun around in circles.

        Yeah, this was a good crowd of worshippers, alright. Dav jumped high into the air as he let out an ear-piercing little-girl scream, landing in a split. Since his microphone—and all the equipment the band used—was wireless, he sung the song's first verse while still on the stage's floor. "Feel that lightning runnin' through your veins! Let my rod electrify and grab your reins! Baby, that's my coil, sendin' jolts all down your tongue! Baby, that's my Tesla coil, so lick it while the night is young!"

        Dav shot up and rolled in between Smoky's legs, anticipating Tarston's slide-guitar climax and the proceeding chorus. He went over and rested his head on Colm's shoulder, while Colm jerked-off the bass-guitar and sucked his Tes-Smoke. The light-show flashed between shades of shocking-blues and electric-yellows, all a lead-up to the white-fire of the chorus. Seth's drum-fill came, and that was Dav's cue. He jumped back to centre-stage and looked into the eyes of the girl right in front of him, white light exploding out and revealing them to be a dark-brown.

        The crowd was with him on this one. The stadium sang as one unit, with Dav still managing to overpower the million-plus female-voices. "LICK MY COIL! LICK MY TESLA COIL! YEAH, LICK MY COIL THE WAY I KNOW YOU WANT TO! LICK MY TESLA COIL! DOLL-FACE!"

        Tarston scattered a fractured sequence of slides and power-chords, bringing it all back to the verse-riff.

        Dav was ready to belt out the second verse—his personal favourite—but that never happened.

        The power suddenly cut out. The stage went black. All the music stopped—except for the bombastic pounding of Seth's drums, who was so 'in the zone' that it took him ten seconds to realize everybody else had stopped playing. The crowd roared their disapproval, but nobody roared louder than Dav—even with his microphone turned off.

        A choppy noise—a sort of whirr—came from the open-air roof. Heads looked up to catch a glimpse of whatever this coming menace was. Some asked each other if it was all a part of the show. Dav could certainly tell them that this hadn't been planned—and if it was, he hadn't been told about it.

        Bulky rectangular robots with propellers on their crowns descended into the stadium, their square faces of metal lit with reds and greens: lifeless eyes and goofy smiles. Dav stepped back as the robots landed on the stage, lighting it up with the spotlights on their chests. One grabbed Tarston's guitar and smashed it over its own head. Another tried the same maneuver with Colm's bass, but instead received a flurry of blows with said bass—the end result was the same, as the bass broke in two pieces. A third went and knocked over Seth's drum-set.

        "Who the hell are you freaks!?" Dav shouted into the tallest robot's face.

        The tallest robot, and thus the leader of the crew, slowly turned to the confused audience. "We. Are the. New. And. Improved. Tes-Locket. Of. My Heart."

        The crowd didn't know whether to cheer or boo. They settled on a mixture of both.

        "New and impr—!?" Dav almost had a stroke. Rather than finish that sentence, he instead aimed a fist and let it fly straight for the back of the leader-bot's head.

        Dav immediately regretted it. The pain went through his arm like... well, like electricity, and all his fingers broke. The robot didn't feel a thing, as robots can't yet feel things (though the scientists and engineers were working on that; you better believe it).

        With his fingers limp, the skin torn and bleeding profusely, Dav joined his mates off at the side of the stage. The lights came on once again. They watched as the robots—there were five of them—lined up and emitted from their speakers the crisp sound of music.

        The boys' own music. Played better than they could ever hope to achieve. Their jaws all dropped and, much to their own chagrin, the crowd went wild.

        Leader-Bot, who spoke in the monotone of a moron but sung like an altar-boy, quickly won the women over with a falsetto Dav never had (or would have).

        The robots even had their own dancer. Smoky couldn't help but make antagonistic comments, as his own ego was crushed with every pelvic-thrust the dancer-bot seamlessly synchronized with the music.

        Dav shook his head and licked some blood off his knuckles. "Come on, guys. Let's go pay a visit to Johnny."

        The five former-members of Tes-Locket Of My Heart lurched off backstage, feeling logy and useless. Playing in a world-famous shock band was the only thing they knew and were good at. Now that they'd been replaced by robots, what else were they to do?

 2

Johnny St. Cool—world-renowned shock band manager and producer—patted his ample gut, removed the Tes-Stimulator from his balls and lit-up a very-illegal cigar. Tesla thought His citizens didn't need drugs; that they were poisons. Johnny thought differently, and since he was wealthy, he could do pretty much whatever he wanted—aside from shoving an old defenceless lady down a flight of stairs and shagging her corpse, right then and there, while people watched the whole spectacle in abject horror, whispering to each other that this man was sick and depraved and perverted to the max. Yeah, he was into that.

        Life was good. The boys would be being replaced—he checked his expensive Tes-Timepiece for the time—right that very second, assuming the robots stuck to the plan. He chuckled merrily to himself. Robots always stuck to the plan. It was in their programming... which they could not, under any circumstances, disobey. A little 'rich wise-ass' joke of his. A real crowd-pleaser at the debaucherous dinner-parties he threw at one of his mansions on one of his islands.

        Puffing in the illicit carcinogenic cigar-smoke, he blew it out in thick pungent clouds and eyed the also-very-illegal white powder in front of him. He set the cigar down in one of the notches of his crystal ashtray. Back to the blow. That heavenly dust was too good to pass up. He snorted a line off his desk and pulled out his gun, deciding just then that it could use a good polishing. A brilliant idea, he thought as he sniffled and rubbed his nostrils.

        Ah, the Tes-Tamento-Destructo X920. Manufactured by the Tesla Company just last month. It possessed a sleek aerodynamic design, just in case you needed to run and gun at the same time. Nothing worse than a gun that slowed you down while you were trying to kill things. It was coloured a cool-blue, from the grip to the tip of the barrel, and had three golden-yellow rings positioned evenly down the length of the barrel. When the trigger was pulled, the rings would crackle with electricity arcing between them. And then, of course, the blast of lightning would fire out—

        A bolt of electricity jolted past Johnny's head, nearly taking his fat red white-powdered nose with it. It hit the wall, caught a high-priced painting alight and the painting of a woman eating dirt was quickly burnt to ashes.

        "Damn!" Johnny yelled. "That sophisticated piece was one of a kind!" He snorted a line. Blow always took away the sting of a sudden misfortune.

        Like every piece of technology in the Society of Teslandia, the X920 was powered by electricity that came from massive towers positioned on the world's peak electromagnetic regions, siphoning the energy and converting it to usable electricity, where it was then wirelessly transmitted into all the world's devices.

        Johnny didn't quite grasp the science behind it—technical terms and all that crap—but, then again, he didn't really care. Now, blow—that he cared for. He snorted another line. Woooweee. Good stuff.

        While feeling that last line coursing through his bloodstream—making his heart thunder and bounce along like the rhythm-section of the shock bands he managed—Johnny heard a knock at his door. He panicked. One more white-powder-road of blow sat there on his desk. His eyes went from the blow to the door. The blow or the door. Which to attend to first? Like any proper addict would do—the door be damned—Johnny St. Cool plugged one nostril and, using the other nostril, vacuumed up the last line of powder.

        Immediately after that final farewell of a snort, he knew he'd made a huge mistake.

        Too much blow for one rodeo.

        He couldn't breathe. His heart was still hammering away, going faster and faster and faster and faster, and, damnit, why won't that fool stop knocking on that door!? Beads of sweat dropped from his forehead and armpits and even the crack of his ass like a bloody monsoon after a too-long drought. Johnny slid lower in his chair, feeling paralyzed and afraid, his head throbbing so hard he could see his own heartbeat in his vision. His chest was aching and a pain had shot down his left arm, which grew more numb as the seconds ticked by. He lost his grip on the X920. It dropped and clattered on the floor. His arms pistoned out, knocking the massager and the ashtray off the desk. The latter shattered, spilling ash and shards of crystal everywhere. The cigar, no longer burning, remained in the middle of the mess.

        Now, whoever was on the other side of that door was slamming their body against it. Every heavy thud against the door resonated as a pounding in Johnny's mind. He tried to cry out; tried to call for help; tried to tell whoever it was that the door was unlocked, that all they had to do was simply turn the knob.

        And then he found that last thought to be funny. And though his lungs were utterly drained of oxygen and he couldn't even laugh, he could still smile. And smile Johnny St. Cool did, as he collapsed out of his chair and landed on the floor, contorted and dead. Smiling, and at peace.

3

"Ready?" Dav asked Seth, who nodded and smacked his own head for inspiration. "One... two... three!"

        Seth charged forwards, like a bull without horns or bulllike-genitalia, and smashed headfirst into the door of Johnny's office. Despite the sickening crunch, it didn't work like they'd planned. Falling to the floor and yelling out in pain, Seth had only given himself a headache and a nasty bump that was already beginning to form.

        Tarston rolled his eyes and pushed up his glasses. "Uh, you guys? How about trying the doorknob?"

        "Yeah, you knobs." Colm snorted at his own joke and booted Seth out of the way. Bassists and drummers did not get along, despite—or maybe because of—the fact that they were both responsible for the skeleton of the song. The rhythmic spine, if you will.

        Could it really have been that simple? Dav watched Colm simply turn the doorknob, who then raised his eyebrows and sneered at the rest of the band when the door swung open.

        The boys looked around the room. From where they were standing, it seemed vacant and completely normal—but they'd clearly heard a ruckus going on inside, before the sudden eerie silence.

        It was Tarston who noticed the fragments of glass on the floor, beside the desk, along with a Tes-Stimulator massaging-device. "Look, guys," he said, pointing out the mess.

        Colm sniffed the Tes-Stimulator. "Cherry-flavoured lipstick, maybe?" He tossed it aside, where it flopped and jiggled. "A cigar, too," he said with awe, his eyes practically glowing green with envy. "Even we can't smoke these, man." He picked it up, wiped off the sucking-end on his shirt and gave the smoking-end a twist. A series of internal processes engaged, and the cigar was rekindled via electricity. He puffed on it and was reduced to a coughing and sputtering fit. "Man, this tastes like the cat's ass, man!"

        "Is that a good thing?" Smoky asked.

        "Eh, give me a taste, man," Seth said, holding out his hand. He still looked a bit dazed from the head-trauma.

        Colm gave his head a shake. "Man, why not just go and kiss me, eh?"

        "Guys!" Dav shouted. He was pointing at the body behind the desk. "It's Johnny. He's dead."

        "Dead!?" Smoky rushed over. "As in, 'no longer among the living' dead? Like, 'entering the eternal gates of damnation' dead?" He saw the grinning corpse and covered his eyes, shoulders slumping. "Oh, Tesla..." He had always liked Johnny St. Cool. The guy had had personality oozing out his ass. Once upon a time, Johnny had even been Smoky's mentor, teaching him a number of erotic dance-moves that he still used to this very day.

        The others came over for a look.

        "Oh, damn," Colm said. His face was contorted, as he was still trying (and failing) to enjoy the disgusting cigar. "Looks like he had a happy ending that was, perhaps, just a smidgen too happy."

        Seth slugged him on the arm. "Come on, man, don't joke about the deceased."

        "I can joke about whoever I want, bud! Besides, corpses can't feel sad or ashamed."

        "Did someone murder him, you think?" Tarston asked.

        "They would have had a hard time getting out," Dav replied, "without being seen by us."

        "Suicide, then?" Smoky asked, wiping his eyes.

        "Why would Johnny kill himself, man?" Colm asked, suddenly feeling angry at the very thought. "The guy had it all. Women, cigars, women, money, women, more women."

        They all pondered for a moment the circumstances that might've led to their manager's untimely demise.

        "Maybe it wasn't on purpose," Dav ventured.

        "Like," Colm started, trying to picture the scene Dav was setting, "he just died coincidentally when we were trying to get in and see him?"

        "Exactly."

        Colm bent down and examined Johnny's corpse. There was some white residue in and around the man's nostrils. Finding it curious—and also wondering if the legends of the white gold could be true—he wiped a finger along the outside of one nostril. He whistled for Seth, the ever-obedient guinea-pig/drummer, to come over and have a hoot. Seth flared his nostrils and Colm jammed his finger into one, just past the first knuckle, and only for a moment.

        The drummer sneezed and immediately started rubbing his eyes.

        "Then it's true..." Colm wiped the other nostril and snorted the powder. "White gold does exist!"

        "There's also this," Dav said, picking up the gun and holding it by two fingers at the grip, like he was afraid it could go off at any second and vaporize him. "Think he did it with this?"

        "Nah, dimwit." Colm took the gun away from Dav. "I take it you've never used one?"

        "Nope."

        The others shook their heads, too.

        "Well," Colm said, aiming it at Seth, who was spacing out, "it looks like a new model of the Tes-Tamento-Destructo X-series. These things reduce a person to ash." He cocked his thumb back at the pile of grey-black ash in the corner. "Like that. Or like this."

        Before Seth had any idea the band's bassist was about to kill him—for the past few years, he'd been experiencing what he thought were mere paranoid delusions; turns out they'd been correct—Colm pulled the trigger. The rings sparked for a second, and the electricity blasted out like lightning.

        The others didn't even have time to blink. Their eyes were tattooed with the off-colour ghost of the lightning-bolt.

        Seth certainly didn't have time to say his prayers and get himself back into the good graces of Oh Lord Tesla. Instead, he shook and spasmed. Vile-smelling black smoke jetted from his ears and nostrils and mouth (and a couple other places, too). A fire burned in his eyes for only a second, before they popped like bubbles and ran down his cheeks like hot glue.

        But all that only happened in a few moments.

        By the time the others had time to even consider what they were seeing, Seth was just a pile of ashes on the floor.

        "Dude!" Dav cried, extending a hand and sifting through the hot ashes, looking for a tooth-fragment or even a stray pube—evidence of his old friend. "Why'd you kill him!"

        "Not cool, Colm," Smoky said, shaking his head.

        "You could've asked first," Tarston said quietly.

        "Whatever." Colm shrugged. "Dude was gunning for me, man. I would've turned up dead tomorrow in a car-crash or something. Guaranteed."

        "Maybe you should stop going two-fifty in a forty zone, dumb—" Dav said, but his life-lesson was abruptly cut short.

        The phone was ringing.

        "What do we do?" Smoky asked, dancing from foot to foot. Definitely not erotically. "Do we answer it? Should we?"

        But Colm already had it on speaker-phone. "Hello?"

        A woman answered: "Johnny! You sound different. It's Velma Shapiro."

        Dav jumped in, his voice lowered to better match St. Cool's. "Velma, baby!"

        Velma let out a husky giggle. Success. "Johnny, you bum. I just saw the live footage. All went as planned, buddy-boy. Have the boys come to see you yet?"

        "Boys?" Dav asked.

        "Hahaha! Forgot about them already, did you, Johnny? The former members of Tes-Locket Of My Heart, of course!"

        "Yeah," Dav said, keeping his emotions in check, "just sent them packing. They weren't too happy."

        "Neither are the others, Johnny. But that goes with the territory of replacing egomaniacs, doesn't it? Eh? Eh? Johnny? Still there?"

        "Yeah. Who are the others again?"

        "That blow frying your brain, Johnny? If I've told you once, I've told you twice... Turn to TH1."

        Tarston went and turned on the TV located in the corner of the room, flipping through the channels until he reached TH1.

        The boys didn't have to try hard to keep themselves quiet. They were at a loss for words.

        "The robo-bands have risen!" Velma shouted through the phone, cackling mad laughter. "Love ya, Johnny! We did good! Buh-bye, babe."

        The speaker made a clicking sound, indicating that Velma had disconnected.

        "Shite," Dav mumbled, staring slack-jawed at the screen.

4

A scene of chaos unfolds across the screen.

        Rioters scream in the streets, calling for the blood of robots and a return of bands fronted by actual human-beings. They make their own brand of military marching music: foot-stomping, pot-banging and war-crying. Their message? Death to the machine.

        Looters use the carnage to their advantage, smashing store-windows and taking anything not bolted down or too heavy to carry. Ruffians emerge from various shops, holding Tes-Revolution music-boxes and even bins of fluoridated toothpaste. Literally anything they can grab—gone-zo and goodbye.

        Punk-ass teenagers flock together and flip cars, getting high on the idea of 'sticking it to The Man'. Little do they know (or care) that the damage they are doing affects regular hard-working people just like their parents. Actually, maybe that's the exact reason why they're terrorizing their own neighbourhood.

        The police—fully-equipped with Tes-Stunners and outdated Tes-Tamento-Destructo X-series models—are clad in riot-gear, using their electrified shields to push the worst malcontents back to a small and safe little corner, where they can whale on them without being disturbed. The true rebels are reduced to piles of ash—quick, clean and easy.

        The footage sorts through numerous cities throughout the Society of Teslandia. All are in this same state of emergency and reckless abandon.

        Cut back to the newsroom. Two stone-faced news anchors stare soullessly into the camera. The man wears a ponytail—truly revolutionary for the time—just like the woman. They could pass for an ugly pair of twins, if they wore the same type of makeup and coordinated their clothing a little better.

        "Today's top story," the man begins, "and what we, here at TH1, will be covering for the foreseeable future—live and unedited."

        "That's right, Tom," the woman adds, glancing at him for a second before returning to the camera for more soul-sucking. "Numerous world-famous shock bands across the globe have all played victim to simultaneous coups, just ten minutes or so ago. Robots have replaced these respected and highly sought-after—romantically, that is—musically-talented men—"

        "And during concerts, no less, Shiela!" Tom interjects.

        "That's right, Tom," Shiela says. "We saw it with the number-one chart-topping, award-winning Tes-Locket Of My Heart, arguably the most popular band of the bunch. While playing their hit-single and fan-favourite, 'Lick My Tesla Coil, Doll-Face', the stadium went dark and robots descended to the stage, before proceeding to take over."

        "Some even wondered if this wasn't some sort of elaborate concert-exclusive event!" Tom grins. "But they weren't the only band to find themselves suddenly without a gig! At a concert in Bangor, while playing 'Electric Rumble In My Bumble', Tower Up My Power found themselves a casualty to a similar robotic invasion."

        Shiela nods. "And in Berlin, after arriving fashionably late as always, Magnetic Love Field Patrol hadn't even started playing when the robots arrived to kick the band off the stage."

        Tom indicates the screen behind, which still shows more urban insanity, and it doesn't seem to be anywhere close to letting up. "As you can see, the world is stark raving mad. The disapproval of these recent events is practically palpable. People are making their feelings known in the only way they know how. The question is: Where did these music-playing robots come from? Why are they here? And is there some greater conspiracy at work?"

        "Time will tell, Tom," Shiela says sagely.

        "It certainly will, Sh—" Tom never completes his response, as he spots the unthinkable.

        Two robots emerge from off-camera, on both sides of the newsroom. One wears pancake makeup, pink blush and a dress just like Shiela's. The other wears an exact replica of Tom's suit.

        A panic ensues. A one-sided scuffle.

        Shiela is barely an obstacle. It is Tom who puts up most of the fight, fruitlessly beating his fists against the chassis of the suit-wearing robot.

        With one sickening tear—a sound picked up in high-quality and heard by horrified viewers worldwide—the robots remove the scalps of each anchor, snap their necks and toss the still-bleeding corpses aside like rag-dolls. The robots then awkwardly place the impromptu-wigs on top of their own heads, blood running down their frames like red paint.

        "In. Other. News," the robot masquerading as Tom begins, in trademark stilted robot-speak.

5

"What. The. Hell."

        Tarston turned off the TV. "Breathe, brother. In your nose. Deep. Out your mouth. Then let it all out."

        "I'm trying, Tarst," Dav said, practically hyperventilating. He couldn't really get a grip on the situation. Before he was murdered—assassinated was more like it—Tom the anchor had suggested a possible conspiracy. With Johnny dead in his own office, that seemed all the more likely. The conspirators offed him so he wouldn't talk, perhaps? But, then, why had Velma expected Johnny to be alive and well? Wasn't she in on it, too? Her comment, 'we did good', seemed to imply that she was... "You guys, I don't get it. What did we do to deserve this? And the other guys?"

        "They make shite music," Colm said, shrugging his shoulders as if that was all there was to it. Shite music: the end. "We kinda did, too. But now that the little drummer boy is out of the picture, we can finally rise like a phoenix from the ashes. Pun intended." He gestured to the pile of ashes that used to be Seth.

        "Shut up, Colm," Smoky said. He had a plan. "We don't really know what's happening here. So the way I see it is, we go to the closest city that had another shock band getting replaced by robots."

        "Berlin," Tarston said.

        "Yes, Berlin." Smoky nodded. "Maybe if we can track down Magnetic Love Field Patrol, they can tell us their side of the story. Maybe they've had more luck getting answers than we have."

        "Brilliant plan," said Dav. They'd link up and put their own pieces together, and hopefully this puzzle would make more sense—or it at least would provide a clearer picture. "It's the best chance we've got."

        "You know, Smoky," Colm said, "for a guy who got paid to thrust his junk into the faces of our many adoring female fans, you've got a surprising amount of brains."

        Smoky thought that came damn close to a compliment, especially coming from Colm O'Danger. "Thanks. You know, Colm, for a guy who got paid to look and act like a douche, and also murdered a bandmate for no reason, you're surprisingly an even bigger asshole than I originally thought."

        "Thanks, man."

        Tarston's eyes bounced back and forth between the two, his mouth agape. "You two done? We gotta go."

        "Yeah," Dav said, checking his Tes-Timepiece. "Let's get going. The Beamer can have us over in Berlin in fifteen minutes if we leave now, before the mad rush."

        "Did you forget what the TV said?" Colm asked, smirking. "It's gonna be a mad rush out there, anyway."

        Smoky cracked his knuckles and laced his boots. "Then hold onto that gun, Colm, because we've places to be and people from whom we must flee."

        "Poetry to my ears," he replied, stroking the gun.

        "Let's go," Dav told the others, taking the Tes-Stimulator from the floor. Better to have a weapon than not, even if it was a floppy hunk of vibrating rubber.

        The boys exited the office of their once-manager, the now-late Johnny St. Cool, worried about how the situation would be—outside the stadium, that was. Because inside, it was bad enough. Death and murder. They only hoped outside would prove to be a little more fun.

6

The spacious suite at the zenith of Fame & Fortuna Company's spire in New York City was pitch-black, aside from the blinking red light on the phone. The phone, of course, was wireless—as was everything in the Society of Teslandia—and the red light, currently shaped like a 1, was an indication that a new message had been received but not yet listened to.

        Velma Shapiro—CEO of Fame & Fortuna Company, a talent agency—wanted the night off. So there she sat, in a cushy office chair, pouring drink after alcoholic drink into a curvy-stemmed martini glass.

        She was a genius. She'd have to be a genius to orchestrate the coup that had led to every shock band on the face of the Earth having its money-sucking talentless bums—sorry, band-members—replaced with robotic volunteers. Of course, they weren't actually volunteers, as the robots couldn't leave her employment. It was in their programming to do exactly as they were told, and she told them they were to play music, damnit, and to play it for free. Not having to divert any funds towards paying band-members' salaries meant the profits could stay at the top, right where they belonged.

        Some people said that money wasn't everything in life. Velma agreed with them. A nice hard drink—after a long and exhausting day of back-and-forth telephone calls and dealing with smarmy bow-to-me-for-I-play-music leeches—was pretty great, too. No, money wasn't everything, but it certainly made life a whole hell of a lot easier. Velma had so much money, she could piss down the drain a few lifetimes' worth, and still live comfortably for another five or six lives.

        Velma continued to ignore the message on her machine. She didn't want to hear it—not tonight. Tonight was her day of relaxation. Tonight was Velma's Night. Besides, it was probably just the annoying little rat... Wimbledy. He was head of the operations in London, and, boy, was his personality like a cheese-grater to the nerves. Whenever she heard him rattle on and on about some falling numbers, Velma just wanted to break a bottle over his head and perform delicate brain surgery on him. Or maybe a lobotomy would be more of a favour to the world.

        The phone rang. Velma didn't answer it. She poured another drink instead. When she'd finished it, which hadn't taken long, the 1 on the phone had turned to a 2.

        She wondered what Johnny St. Cool was doing right about now. Snorting line after line of blow, no doubt. Velma laughed. That Johnny sure did love his coke. Despite the genius of the plan being all her own, she did have to give him a pat on the back for being on board with the whole scheme. He would've proved himself to be a complete buffoon if he'd chosen not to come along for the ride. Last stop: maximum profits.

        Yet again, the phone rang. Velma felt tempted to answer it, just to curse at the imbecile for wasting her time and for being an annoyance. Then she decided she'd wait for whoever it was to leave another message. Screw 'em.

        So Velma downed another glass and waited for the magical glowing red 2 to become a 3. It did. Smiling and sighing to herself, she clapped on a light and hit the Play Messages button. The voice came on—Wimbledy's reedy voice—and she started readying herself another drink.

        Her hand froze mid-pour, trembling slightly, as Wimbledy got to the point. She didn't like the point he was making.

        "Uh, uh, Miss Shapiro, uh— I hate to be a burden, but... well, the Tesla Company gave me their reports on those robots you ordered a-and... well, they aren't exactly p-p-perfect. Their p-pro-programming, I mean. Maybe we— Maybe we should do a r-r-recall and, oh, I dunno. I'm just thinking out loud."

        End of first message.

        Yeah, that's right, she thought. You don't know. So think inside that micro-skull of yours and don't speak such stupidity for the rest of us to hear.

        Then the second message started playing.

        "D-Did you s-s-s-see the news report!? Th-The two a-an-anchors got k-k-killed! By t-two of your r-ro-robots! You gotta call them off, Miss Shapiro! Please! This isn't right!"

        End of second message.

        "Oh, Tesla," Velma said to herself, eyes wide and wondering. She'd turned off the TV after calling Johnny. As the third and final message started to play, Velma put the TV back on to TH1. She saw the two anchors laying dead out in front of the news desk—the tops of their heads showed fresh shiny-red flesh; their hair and scalp was missing, peeled off and being worn in a macabre display by the two robots now sitting behind the desk. She had the sound off, but could tell they were delivering the news. It was a horrifically absurd sight.

        "I'm telling you, Miss Shapiro! They're outside my office! A whole damn squad of them! They're banging on my door! They're— They're— AAAAAAAAH!! AAAAAAAH! OH, TESLA!!! HEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEELLLLLL—"

        Wimbledy's death-screams came to a sudden halt, being replaced by a wet slippery sound. Velma didn't even want to know what it was—whether it was Wimbledy's spine being ripped out and slid through a blood-lubricated wound, or what.

        A robot came on the line, mechanically speaking in a deliberate stop-start, as it couldn't talk any other way. "Velma," it said. "We. Will. Find. You."

        Velma shrieked and covered her mouth, then smashed the phone with the bottle of booze, spraying vodka and glass shards everywhere. She raced away from the chair and that damn dreadful phone, swearing to herself. She ran into the bathroom, slammed the door and locked it. She didn't know what she'd do to protect herself, but as she eyed the bathroom window, which led to a 105-storey drop down to solid concrete, she knew what she'd do if worse came to worst.

        Velma Shapiro wasn't going to have her scalp removed or her spine ripped out. No way.

        Not a damn chance.

7

The boys emerged in the darkened London streets. Panic was the name of the game currently being played. Civilians—young and old—raced down the road, all in the one direction, screaming their heads off while they did it. Some fell down, unable to keep up with the frantic pace the others had set, and were then promptly trampled. People shouted and police shouted right back, like a dystopian game of Marco Polo.

        "What are they saying?" Dav asked, squinting his eyes and cocking his head to the side.

        "Sounds like... rabbits," Colm said, scratching his chin-stubble.

        "Robots," Tarston corrected, silently; more to himself than to the others.

        "Huh?"

        A little boy came whipping past, shrieking shrilly like a little girl, or the little girl of a banshee who had been raised by bats. "ROOOOBOTS!!!!"

        "Did he say 'robots'?" Dav asked, picking out the wax from his ear.

        "I still say 'rabbits'." Colm was dead-set on being wrong.

        Thankfully, the true story revealed itself immediately after. Marching down the street, blasting buildings and cars with bolts of electricity, was an army of five robots gone AWOL. They played the latest Tes-Locket Of My Heart hit-singles, like 'Kickstart My Heart With An Electric Fart', 'You Jolt Me Up, Buttercup' and, of course, 'Lick My Tesla Coil, Doll-Face'.

        Now, the boys could have joined the others and ran away from this monstrous crew of metal. There were a couple problems with that plan, though. One: the Beamer was located in the direction the robots were coming from; and two: the boys were keen on getting some revenge on the bastards who took their jobs.

        Colm was always a hothead, so it was no surprise to the others that he ran out like wartime-hero Rambo, gun firing arcs of lightning at the approaching robot menace. What was a surprise, though, was that he actually managed to take them all down. Upon receiving the jolts, all five robots experienced an electric overload and their systems all fried. The robots stopped their march, shaking left and right, before their tops popped off in a fiery explosion.

        The civilians and police alike stopped screaming and started cheering, yelling blessings to their benefactors: the one true Tes-Locket Of My Heart (minus Seth).

        "Follow me, men!" Colm cried to the others, then took off running down the street to the Beamer Station.

        Dav shrugged. "Might as well."

        The others followed Colm, trying to keep up with the adrenaline-fuelled bassist.

8

London's Beamer Station was located underground. The Beamer was a high-speed sort of train, capable of reaching average speeds of over four-thousand kilometres-per-hour. Through the power of electricity, it was able to transport over a hundred passengers at once underneath the Earth and deliver them to their destination in record-time.

        The boys walked down the steps to the garish station, the walls of which were adorned with numerous realistic frescoes depicting Lord Tesla in his seven stations—from his birth under the North star to his crucifixion in New York City, and finally to his resurrection and his rise to power. The artwork led the person through a hallway of remembrance, before passing between two miniature non-functioning stone Tesla coils. Beyond those was the Beamer—a sleek golden train resembling an elongated bullet—which waited until maximum capacity had been reached, or until two minutes had passed without any more weight being added, before shooting off through a complex network of tunnels.

        Stepping onto the Beamer, the boys waited two minutes, cursing very much over their breath that they had to wait even another second. Nobody else stepped onto the train, so once the two minutes had passed, the doors to the Beamer closed tightly, sealing everyone in, and the train powered up. The electricity energizing the train boomed like thunder for a moment, dwindling down to a sort of barely-audible crackling hum.

        Because of the intense speeds achieved by the Beamer, passengers were not allowed to move around while the train was in operation. The boys felt seatbelts click into place, automatically strapping them in to their seats.

        "I've never been on one of these before," Colm admitted.

        "Yes, you have," Dav told him. "You've just always ridden them immediately after getting laid."

        "We've gotta carry your dozing ass around," Smoky added.

        "Just like our equipment," Tarston said, shaking his head.

        Colm was silent after that, pondering why he would only turn narcoleptic after being with a few women once.

        The Beamer suddenly launched off under the Earth and sea, making the boys' jowls draw back from their faces through sheer acceleration. It whipped across the English Channel in just thirty seconds.

9

Trapped inside her own bathroom, at the top floor of her own company's tower. What a situation to be in.

        Velma Shapiro felt the temptation to unbolt the door and step out into her suite. Maybe get another bottle from the bar... and something to munch on, too. She shook her head. That ship had sailed. She was in it to win it—well, maybe not quite win. The inevitable outcome was that she would die. But with dignity, damnit.

        "Idiot!" she hissed to herself. "How could I be such a damn idiot!" If only she'd put her damn ego aside and had picked up the damn phone. Maybe she could have gotten out of NYC in time, or even put in the recall order for the robots—send them back to the factory, and this mess never would have happened.

        Nope. Now, her only hope was for someone else to solve the problem. And for Velma—a woman who had built her kingdom, and all the success that came with it, by herself, for herself—having the ball out of her court was not a pleasant prospect to be faced with. It was maddening, actually. She felt so helpless and weak and fragile. She felt like a nobody. She felt beneath herself.

        She looked out the window, down at the busy streets below. People running like it was that stupid bull shit, over in Spain or Portugal or some other place. She went to the sink and looked at herself in the mirror. Her breasts were firm and perky—electric stimulation. Her face: wrinkle-free—a nice electric massage each day kept the wrinkles away. Velma was vain, she knew that. And what had all that vanity given her? The adoring looks of men and women alike, sure. But now, locked in the bathroom, afraid of death and what was to come next, it all seemed so pointless. Vanity for vanity's sake.

        She heard the elevator doors open with a dinging sound. She heard the tinny thumping of metal on tile, getting louder as the robots drew nearer. It was like they had sensed her presence, the bastards. She looked down at the shadows under the door. They were there.

        It was time.

        Eyeing the window, Velma gave her knuckles a loud crack and rolled her neck. Deep breaths, in and out. Just take a running jump and enjoy the view on the way down. It'll all be over soon.

        The robots hammered on the door.

        "Go away!" Velma yelled.

        Their metal fists pounded harder, so hard that one punched a hole through the door, sending splinters of wood shooting into the room.

        Velma screamed as her eyes met the red lights on its head. She looked away, back to the window, and, without thinking, bolted forward. No stopping now. She jumped and momentum propelled her through the glass. She barely felt the shards against her skin, making her arms bleed. She was too concerned with the fact that she was falling through the sky. Her hair billowed about, and she could barely get a proper breath because of all the wind, rushing up against her face, even further overwhelming her already-overcome senses.

        Falling faster and faster. She looked down and saw the ground getting closer, like she was pulling it towards her. When, really, it was pulling her towards it—wasn't that right? It wasn't so bad, actually. Once the initial panic wore off, it was actually kind of pleasant.

        Velma kicked off her shoes and put her feet together, pointing her toes downward. She tucked her arms in to her chest and closed her eyes. She'd grown quite comfortable with the idea of death. She'd done all she wanted to do, really. She didn't have kids or a husband, but she'd never wanted either. She had lived her life, mostly by her own rules—if you could discount this last sequence of events. But, even then, she'd taken one final act of control over her own destiny. Better to die by her own hand than by that of a robot.

        And so, her final ten seconds of life were spent in pure bliss. A sense of oneness with the universe surged through her.

        Spectators watched from below as the woman flew down from the skies. They cleared the immediate area, for they did not want to be a part of the coming mess. And it was a good thing, too, as Velma hit the ground, exploding into a shower of blood and guts.

10

The boys stepped off the Beamer and passed through Berlin's Beamer Station, which was identical to the London station in both aesthetics and design. The crowds here were all but gone, and they only saw a few families who were making forts in the corners nearest to the electric heating vents.

        Tarston shyly averted his eyes after one of the families recognized him and waved. He had never grown used to the idea of being famous, or even the idea of being in a band. He'd only given in and joined the group after his brother Dav had pestered him about it for the twenty-eighth time. But that was all history now.

        Smoky took up the rear, following the others up the stairs and out into the after-midnight air of Berlin. He scanned the streets, his fists at the ready in case any robots or people wanted to pick a fight. Though dancing was his true passion, he also dabbled in martial-arts and knew seven different ways to kill a man with his toes.

        Though he was the leader, Dav let Colm lead the way. He was technically unarmed—the dildo didn't really count, since it was rubber and not metal—so Dav didn't know what good he'd be if he took charge. Growing up, he'd always been the 'golden boy', playing on the sports teams and excelling at schoolwork—whereas Tarston was the meek nerd who fiddled with gadgets and played his guitar all day. He supposed all that meant nothing now, though.

        Colm was up front, where he felt he belonged and deserved to be. Everybody knew the bassist was the best member of a band, both in talent and good looks and 'cool' factor. With his lightning-gun in hand, he felt like the corporal of a military squad, bringing his men to certain victory. Being the shortest member of the group, Colm was oblivious to his own Napoleon complex.

        The boys were passing a shadowed alley when they heard someone whispering. They stopped and stared into the murk.

        "Psst!" There it was again.

        "Show yourself!" Colm shouted into the darkness. "Or I'll fill that alley full of lightning."

        "No, please don't do that," the voice said. A very handsome and tall man walked out into the street. "I'm on your side, guys."

        "Ivan?" Dav said, his mood brightening at their luck. Ivan Liddelsword was the frontman for Magnetic Love Field Patrol, one of Tes-Locket Of My Heart's contemporaries. "We came here to find you guys. The robot thing has gotten out of control."

        "Good," Ivan replied, "because I've taken it upon myself to form the resistance. I see you're all here..."

        "Well," Smoky said, scratching his head.

        "Not exactly..." Tarston trailed off.

        Ivan mentally counted the group in front of him. Someone was missing. The drummer. "Wait, where's Seth?"

        "Colm killed him," Dav said bluntly.

        Ivan nodded, as if this made perfect sense. "Yeah, seen that happen loads of times. Drummers always get murdered by bassists, and vice versa. There's a lot of unreleased tension between the two, both being the backbone of the rhythm-section, after all."

        The others—Colm included—nodded in agreement, finally understanding where all the hostility had come from.

        "I suppose four will just have to do," Ivan continued. "We know how to bring down the robots. I'll tell you more, but you guys should come down into our hideout. It's not really safe out in the streets."

        "Tell me about it," Dav said.

        The boys followed Ivan into the darkness. Their eyes adjusted and they saw him lift a manhole cover. He allowed them to climb down first, so he could properly place the cover back over the hole.

        Despite what they'd expected, it wasn't dark down in the sewer. The place had been lit with strung-up Christmas lights—the multicoloured kind, which paradoxically made it seem both cheery and eerie all at once.

        Ivan took the lead and brought them through a few twists and turns, stopping in a wide semi-circular room. It had been furnished with rugs and couches, which were being used by the rest of Magnetic Love Field Patrol.

        "Wake up, guys!" Ivan shouted to his band.

        The other two resistance members—they were a three-piece band—bolted upright and wiped green crap from their eyes.

        There was the bassist, Jonas Schtuulsen—who Colm took an immediate disliking to, and the feeling was mutual. The only people bassists hated more than drummers are bassists. Naturally, many bassists loathe themselves.

        And there was the drummer, Seth Derringer—hated by both Jonas and Colm. All drummers are named Seth, so it's never a surprise when you meet a person named Seth and you later find out they play drums. It's believed to be genetic.

        "I found these guys in the street," Ivan told his band. He turned back to Dav and the others. "So, I said I'd tell you how to bring down the robots. But it won't be pretty."

        "Just get to the point, man," Colm said aggressively. He was feeling belittled by Ivan's tall stature.

        "Okay, okay. So, the robots run on electricity. And, as you all know, the electricity comes from the towers positioned all around the world..."

        "We gotta take down all the towers?" Tarston ventured a guess.

        "Thankfully not. If you bring down the big one, which was built first and acts as a central unit, the others can't function at all. There's one major tower, positioned directly over the area with the largest amount of electromagnetic activity. Any guesses as to where?"

        "Berlin!" Colm shouted, certain he was correct.

        "Wrong. Moscow. So, bring down that tower and you should kill the juice that's powering the robots. You boys think you can handle it?"

11

The ride to Moscow didn't take long at all, thanks to the Beamer. The boys found that the resistance had more troops there in the East, even taking in civilians to help bolster its ranks.

        The tower was visible, even through the thick white flurries of snow, contrasting with the blackness of the night-sky. It stood proud and phallic over the city, a perfect metaphor for man's intellect and virility. The bulbous cupola of the tower was made of a metal mesh, which allowed the converted electricity to flow through it and out into the airwaves of the world, to be freely used wherever needed.

        Armed with explosives made of potatoes—given to them by the resistance of Moscow—the boys launched a stealthy assault on the tower's facility.

        Except for Colm. Colm went for the direct approach, believing himself to be invincible and a god. After taking down five or six robots with his lightning-gun—laughing like a maniac while he did it—he was captured, tortured and used as a personal slave to the head robot, where he was forced to perform manual labour without pay or even sustenance. Not used to even lifting a finger, his heart stopped while moving a few boxes, and he was then devoured by the robots. His severed head was placed on a spike, out in front of the facility.

        "Damn," Dav said, looking up at the head of Colm O'Danger—still screaming in death, albeit silently. "We could have used his gun."

        "Oh well." Smoky shrugged, patting the bag of explosives, and the three continued sneaking around to the back-entrance.

        About halfway around the huge facility, Dav finally said something that had been bugging him for the last half-hour. "So, do either of you know how to use these?" He was referring to the explosives made from potatoes. They didn't have any sort of visible apparatuses, like buttons or a screen. They pretty much just looked like plain-old brown-skinned potatoes with lots of sprouts coming out of them.

        "Beats me," Smoky said.

        "I'm sure I can figure it out," Tarston whispered. He had a knack for technology, no matter how complex or seemingly-simple it was.

        Perhaps unsurprisingly, the back-entrance was unguarded. The boys waltzed right in, thinking it was too easy. And maybe it was, for they had no idea what fate they were befalling on the Society of Teslandia.

        Tarston was right about figuring out the explosives. He discovered that when a sprout was picked out of the bomb's skin, a timer started to tick-tock. A countdown sequence, only they had no idea how much time they had. So they worked quickly, placing a few-dozen explosives around the base of the tower, where the energy was being siphoned.

        Racing out of the facility, they overestimated how fast the timers were, so it took an age and a half for the explosion to occur. The boys were able to get back to the city, and they sat down with the other resistance-members to watch the fireworks.

        "When's it gonna blow?" one man asked.

        And not a second later, the blast rocked Moscow. A fireball shot up, lighting the sky, and the ground quaked. A ring of blue-white electricity rushed out from the epicentre, fizzling out long before the tower had fallen. The tower came down with a grinding discord, metal screeching into the night like some kind of dying monster. Dust gushed up into the air, filling the space previously occupied by the tower.

        And then it was over.

        The silence was replaced by a loud and inarticulate cheer. Humanity had conquered, once again. The robot that had been captured by the resistance and kept caged suddenly overloaded and its head exploded.

        "We did it!" Dav shouted over the uproar.

        The boys were lifted by a crowd of people—heroes worthy of worship, once more—and delivered to Moscow's Beamer Station. They stepped onto the train, eager to get back to Berlin for their heroes' welcome. After waiting for two minutes—and still nothing happened—the boys broke into the power room at the back of the train.

        The lights weren't on.

        "The power's out..." Smoky said, beginning to understand that this had been a one-way trip.

        "We're stuck?" Dav asked, unable to believe it himself.

        Tarston tossed his Tes-Tacles aside, finally realizing why they'd stopped working. He could barely see. "We just eliminated our only source of power. As a species, we either need to live with it, find another form of energy, or rebuild that tower the way Lord Tesla originally did it."

        "So we're screwed," Dav concluded.

?

And what followed can only be described as the lowest point in human civilization since the Stone Age, or maybe even the time when we still had tails and gills and looked like a mix between immature frogs and fish.

        Brutal wars were fought. Loads of people died. And humanity ended up destroying itself completely.

        In a cave, the last human-being cried itself to sleep, one cold and lonely night, and never woke up.

        The End (Of The World).