Why did you tell your own story in the third person? And also, why didn’t you use any dialogue tags or quotation marks? (Honestly, it kind of makes it hard to tell who is or even when someone is speaking.)
Explaining it to a human intellect would prove difficult.
Your vocabulary is . . . well, “high-falutin’” comes to mind as a way to describe it. Where’d you learn to talk so fancy? In ninja school?
Only small minds limit themselves to the basest vocabulary. The grunting and squealing of meat-speech can only be improved, either by elaboration or by the silence of death.
The dojo was also in possession of a fine thesaurus.
Where’d you get that sweet-ass railgun? I mean, where can a person who is not an awesome robot get a thing like that?
Lose everything. Then, and only then, can enlightenment and railguns be obtained.
How was that Waffle House?
I can no longer ingest human sustenance. The taste of nori on my tongue is a decaying memory, like the faded stripes on the antiquated pelt of some long-extinct jungle cat.
Oh, right. Sorry about that. Do you miss food? Or if not, which of your limbs or viscera do you miss most?
My shadow gland.
Speaking of food, Spark—the kitten that lives inside your chest cavity—still needs to eat, and I see here that Lightspeed, gives you a single sardine each time someone buys a copy of the magazine, as payment for your services as marketing shill. Does Spark have any favorite brand, or any preferences when it comes to his feeding?
Dusty cans in hidden bunkers, the very bones of those that placed them there worn down to an alkaline sand. If those are not available, Crown Prince will also do.
If you had one piece of advice for someone aspiring to be an awesome robot ninja, what would it be?
Your dreams are the lunatic weeping of some caged madman in a sideshow where the audience is as bestial as the attractions they gawp at. What emptiness brought you to this?
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