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"Say, you're a robot, ain'tcha?"
Zeep looked the human up and down. It seemed, by its clothing, to share a symbiotic relationship with the pile
of garbage from which it had crawled. From the bits of scraggly, filthy-grey beard poking out of the rags, he ascertained
that it was male.
"I am Packagerunner Alpha One-Six, but you can call me by my designated human-friendly name: Zeep."
"Zeep, eh? You're on the run... I can tell. But don't worry, Jake'll hide ya. I was on the run myself once,
from those evil commie bastards!"
Something clicked in Zeep's brain. It was either a revelation, or a diode burning out.
"Well, fuck me..." said Zeep, finally getting the hang of the word. "I had no idea humans hated
each other so much. That's answered a question I was asking myself earlier."
"Humans are the scum of the Earth," said Jake. "But I've got 'em foxed. I've built this fort of
rat-infested boxes and urine-stained blankets. It's just a stinking pile of garbage to most folk, so no one comes
down here."
"Fascinating," said Zeep.
"Uh-oh, here they come! Now lay low a moment and you'll see."
Jake waved a filthy hand, and Zeep reversed into the shadows behind the marvellous fort. The old man scurried back
into the pile, and lay half-in, half-out, as if he were taking a casual nap. The police cruiser coasted past the
alleyway, took absolutely no notice of what was down it, and disappeared up the street.
"See? See?" cried Jake. "Ha ha! Works every damn time."
"Thank you, Jake," said Zeep. "What an amazing sub-routine."
"Say... them's some fancy boxes you're carryin'. Mind if I take a look?"
Zeep shrugged, and turned sideways so the old man could get at them.
Jake hefted one, and groaned and griped a lot as he lifted it to the ground. Next he fished around in his bivouac
and pulled out a jimmy bar. With little effort he had the crate open. The hooting and hollering which followed
frightened several pigeons from the rooftops above.
"Hot damn, the good stuff! Friend, you just made my day. Are all those boxes full?"
"Yes," said Zeep. "I can't remember where I'm supposed to take them, but if you... oh. You're not
an `Illiterati,' are you?"
"Hell no, Nazi motherfuckers!"
Zeep wondered what exactly they did.
"Well, then. If you sign this form, the boxes are yours."
"I'll sign anything you want! You might not be able to read it, but that's okay; neither will I."
Zeep displayed a digital smile on his face, and flipped out his consignment form again. Jake clutched the light-pen
and scrawled something that was indeed illegible on the screen.
"Helloooo, baby," Jake said to a can of Just Peachy.
He ripped off the pull-tab and guzzled half of it down in one go.
"Ahhhhh. I think I'm gonna hafta sit down now. Want one? Help yourself."
Zeep watched Jake collapse in a heap on his pile of rags, and took a can from the open crate.
"Hmm," he said.
He jiggled the can, popped it open, and poured the contents into his tank. He tapped his fingers absent-mindedly
as he waited for his pumps to engage.
The world zoomed, and the dark alleyway became a kaleidoscope of orange hues. With some difficulty, because of
his failing depth-perception, Zeep picked up another can.
"How d'ya feel?" asked Jake.
"Just... peachy," he said.
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