Tales of BLOGTRONIC--Kurt Russell (Part 3)

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“Where do you want to do this, BLOGTRONIC?” Kurt asked.

“I don’t know…where are we, exactly?”

“Texas, BLOGTRONIC.  You know, where I live?”

The thin man in the suit and bowler hat stepped out of the crowd again.  “Actually,” he said, raising a single thin finger, “In February 2003, Kurt Russell and Goldie Hawn moved to Vancouver, British Columbia, so that their son could play hockey.”

I looked over at the guy.  “Who the hell are you?”

“Wikipedia Brown,” said Hector the barkeep, as if it was obvious.

Wikipedia Brown nodded.  “The writer of more Wikipedia articles than any other man alive, and the keeper of vast stores of information, dear sir.”

“Okay,” I said.  “Why aren’t you out helping the FBI solve child abductions and shit like that, you’re so goddamn smart?”

“Who’s to say I don’t?” Brown sniffed.  “Every man needs a drink now and again.”

I shrugged.  “So, Kurt, what’s the deal?  You live here or in Canada?”

“I live wherever I fucking want, robot.  Here, there, inside your mom…I ain’t picky.  Now, are you ready to trip the fight paintastic, or what?”

I clenched a grasper.  “First of all, my mother’s a saint.  Or at least, she would have been, had she existed.  Second, any time, any place, Russell.  Whenever you want to get a cold shaft of titanium justice rammed straight up your ass.”

“I bet you’d like that, you electronic douche-rod.  You’d love nothing more than to get your mitts on this slab of sweaty masculinity.”

“Maybe I would…maybe I’d whisper sweet nothings in your ear before pulling out and finishing on your face!  I bet you’d like that, you burly man-god.”

“Maybe I would, you sexy obelisk of manhood.”

Our eyes locked.  Our muscles rippled.  We breathed.  We sweated.  Finally, Hector slapped palm on the top of the bar.  “For crying out loud!  Are you two going to kill or fuck each other?”

Kurt Russell sneered.  “Back room, robot…NOW.”

“Whatever you say, motherfucker!”

We went into the back room, followed by hundreds of eyes, tentacles and visual interfaces.  We came out about twenty minutes later, slapping each other on the back and smiling.

“Boy,” said Kurt, “sexual tension can really get in the way of a good duel to the death!”

“You said a mouthful there, Kurt!” I responded, and then we paused, shared a look, and laughed.

Kurt wiped a tear of hilarity.  “I guess we’d better get down to killing each other, huh?”

“I guess so.”

The laughter died down, and the tension ramped up, but it wasn’t sexual tension this time.  It was deathual tension.

“So wait,” interrupted the anthropomorphic armadillo.  He pushed his cowboy hat back.  “Did you two just bang?  Is that what I’m supposed to understand?”

“It was a manly working-out of some long-standing issues!” I snapped.  “With sodomy.”

Kurt Russell lit a cigarette.  “I don’t know about you, robot, but after sex, I like…”  He took a deep drag and let the smoke drizzle out his nostrils.  “…killing a guy.”

TO BE CONTINUED