The Robotic Ball: Part 1

I had received the invitation to the Duke and Duchesses ball in the mail via pony express. It seemed in those days the best ways to deliver a piece of parcel was to either surrepticiously send a complex system of horse drawn carriages or shoot a giant, amalgamated cannon containing your desired mail in your immediate vicinity; the latter being approximately 99% less effective. It had accured to me that this very facet of the delivery of mail would prove almost completely ineffective as far as the need of receiving said parcel is concerned, although I had always chosen this method if I had been given the choice, regardless.

When I received my mail (it had arrived through the air, as I had been able to choose the way in which uplifted my heart and calmed my spirits, as the cannon's blast could be heard for miles) I rejoiced in a way that would make elven fairies jealous, as I had been long awaiting an invite to the most highly anticipated shindig that had ever encapsulated Northern England in all of the 19th century.

I was joyously awaiting this night, the night which would go down as the biggest and largest smash hits of the century, until I arrived at the startling conclusion that I had not a date! "This will not do!" I proclaiimed to myself as I sipped on some of the finest Brandy I had ever ingested. "Calvin Killingsworth, The Duke of Yorke, has not a date to bring to the finest gathering of gentleman and ladies in the 19th century? What an outrage! I must make haste of this search for a young gentlelady in which I shall court the laderhosen off of!" (Laderhosen, a fashion import from Germany, had reached it's height in popularity in England in the 19th century).

Where, oh where can I find a fitting darling lady who hasn't already been gobbled up by the rest of the dashing dukes in Northern England? I pondered this many many sleepless hours, until I arrived at a conclusion. This conclusion would have its critics, of course, but these critics were to be silent, since I would speak of my decision to no one! I had chosen to find one in the nearest pheasant village, for it was often thought that by shear numbers alone these lowlifes should produce a looker in the bunch.

I had decided to go by day as for it was rumoured that the phesants had feasted on the flesh of the dying at night, and I wished to avoid this practice as much as possible. I had fetched my garden's flowers and threw it together in a simple marvelous way that would impress any fine lady of royal standards and backgrounds, and thus I would think it would ensnare any pheasant woman that laid her eyes upon it in an instant, and took off from my headquarters in Yorke to
find my companion to this gathering at the pheasant village. I arrived to the sound of my regular pageantry and trumpeted arrival, and looked around the rat infested, sewer smelling trash heap to find the women covered in robes and covered faces, disgustingly hideous those that had forgotten to cover up. Not a looker in the bunch, I thought to myself... until... There was one woman standing alone. Who looked to be so stoic and of such appeal to my pagentry that she tilted her head to the side, as if to invite me to her humble abode. I told my driver to fetch this woman and bring her to me. "Lord Gallington, fetch that woman in the middle of that street! She is who is destined to accompany me to the ball to end all balls. " Lord Gallington was always a wise ass. "That didn't sound too good, sir." "Shutup, Gal Pal and bring her to me."

After all the pointless squabbling between Lord Gallington and I, he had finally agreed to drive up to the woman I had so fondly set my eyes upon. I said to the fair maden, "Hello, my dear! How would you like to accompany me, Calvin Killingsworth, the Duke of Yorke, to the 50th annual Duke and Duchesses ball held in the Northern England city of York? Would that suit you fine?"

The woman again tilted her head. She said nothing.

"Well? What do you think about this proposal? Or are you too awestruck?"

The woman scowled at this remark, and had an emotionless face about her that did not sit well with me. I prodded her again with constant questions, and yet again she still said no. She turned her head away from eye contact.

"Listen, my dear, although you are very appealing to me and my court, I will have to leave you
here if you do not answer my round of questioning. Now who are you?"

The woman turned, quite slowly, and spoke. "I am a T-1000 robotic cyborg machine sent back in the future to kill John Connor, leader of the human race. Do you know of this man?"

After several minutes of laughter, I replied with the following question," What is a robot?"

TO BE CONTINUED...