<img src=" http://farm6.static.flickr.com/5161/5365567211_c4feacab84_m.jpg" alt="vapitronix" />

I’m holding it open in front of me, today’s newspaper, resplendent in its four-paneled majesty, spread wide before me like an exhibitionist jellyfish warmly offering up its tender undercarriage of newsworthiness for me to peruse. I dissect it with my twin eyeball-scalpels, trim away fold after fold of loose skin, fodder, filler, all the useless bits that are entirely and obviously without upshot, and I do so painstakingly, gingerly, lovingly. I’m enjoying my morning ritual thoroughly, or would be were Vapitron not lingering over my shoulder and bludgeoning me with its insistence.

'Are those the classifieds?' it says, eyeing me suspiciously. 'If so—'

'They aren’t,' I snap.

'Can I finish?' Vapitron says, tilting its head sarcastically. 'If it was the classifieds—'

'But it isn’t,' I say, rustling the paper impatiently.

'That’s really unappealing, you interrupting like that. Terrible personality-trait. All I’m asking—'

'I know what you’re asking,' I say, dropping my hands and crunching the newspaper into my lap. 'These aren’t the classifieds.'

'Do you even know when you’re interrupting anymore? God. I don’t interrupt you when you’re…'

Vapitron trails off, and I elbow into its silence.

'No,' I say. 'Please continue: you don’t interrupt me when I’m what - reading the paper?'

After a pause - and no response - I unfurl my crumpled newspaper and resume reading in the silence, and this way it goes for a few minutes.

'Twee-ooo, tweee,' Vapitron says finally, mimicking the act of whistling to pass the time. 'Twee, tweeooo, eeeeooooo-ooooo.' Gritting my teeth, I pull the paper closer to my face, determined to sort through the rest of my now-crinkly news items.

'Little help?'

My hands drop again and I find Vapitron staring at me, tapping its finger against the arm-rest.

'What,' I say, wearily.

'Oh, I’m suddenly not looking for the classifieds anymore?' Vapitron has lowered its head, pinching the space between its eyes where the bridge of its nose would be if it weren’t a robot and had a nose. 'That’s strange. I could’ve sworn that I was still looking for the classifieds, and yet here we sit, not a classified between us.'

I attempt to change the subject, only to be cut off with, 'You don’t listen for shit.'

'Why don’t you actually look for the classifieds,' I say, 'instead of griping about how you don’t have them?'

Vapitron stands, and I hear its head slowly rotating as I again shield my face with the paper. Then:

'This is bullshit.'

'Why is it that you care so deeply about today’s classifieds?' I ask from behind the newspaper, a newspaper that is now tenting in toward me, Vapitron’s finger pushing through to jab me in the sternum.

'That doesn’t concern you,' it says, emphasizing the point with a few extra jabs.

'Looking for a job, maybe?' I ask, slapping away its probing digit. 'Thinking of helping out with the mortgage, are you?'

'Guess again,' Vapitron says, leaning in and beckoning me likewise, ready, seemingly, to divulge a great secret: 'Shut up.'

'I’ve got an idea,' I say, frowning and folding my paper into a neat little square. 'It’s too lovely outside for us to spend the day inside arguing. Why don’t you take advantage of the nice weather and, I don’t know, fuck off?'

'I need to see if my ad came out right,' it says, extraordinarily put-upon in offering this explanation. 'There was an argument with the editor over space-considerations, and then the file I sent him was corrupted… whatever. Look, either find me the classifieds or give me some change to buy my own paper, okay?'

'What about your allowance?' I ask, affecting disappointment as well as I am able. 'Does someone need another lesson in foresight?'

'Someone needs a lesson in shutting up,' Vapitron says. 'You. Need that lesson, that is. The one about shutting up.'

'You’re not still trying to get rid of my dehumidifier, are you? Remember, it’s not beeping threats at you; it‘s just indicating that the tank is full.'

'I’m selling off the pieces of your previous Vapitron versions,' it says abruptly, as though unburdening itself. 'The separate parts should fetch me a higher collective price than the robots themselves, I’d wager.'

'Oh, you found them, did you?' I ask, smirking.

'The worm has turned,' it says, curling its fingertips towards itself as though they sported fingernails to admire. 'Soon enough I won’t have to debase myself grovelling for change from a petty tyrant.'

'Mmm,' I say, affecting pensiveness as well as I am able, though it clearly falls short of my disappointment affectation. 'You got ‘em all, did you?'

'Six robots expertly dismembered and professionally advertised, despite the intractability of a certain classifieds editor,' it says, smugly. 'I am as great as you are doughy.'

'Six, huh?' I say. 'Mmm.'

'Mmm nothing, you smirking ass. Look,' Vapitron says, sitting hurriedly beside me and opening its bicep-panel. 'It says VAPITRONIX IV, right here.'

I look my engraving from years ago and continue smirking, much to Vapitron’s chagrin.

'I am the seventh Vapitron, then, which explains the six dipshit Vapitrons I found in the garage, milling about aimlessly like they were specifically programmed to stare blankly at the ceiling,' it says, growing increasingly exasperated. 'Why are you still grinning at me with that face that should shut up?'

'I’m not saying anything,' I counter.

'Shut up!'

'Listen,' I say, patting Vapitron on the shoulder. 'You might want to reconsider what you know about those letters I etched inside your bicep-panel.'

'What,' it says, the questioning lift noticeably absent.

'Why do you so readily accept that your name is Vapitronix when I’ve always called you Vapitron?'

'I thought it was short form,' it says, doubtfully.

'Right,' I say with a long blink, 'because most four-syllable names get shortened to three-syllables.'

'So, wait,' says Vapitron. 'What?'

'You’re Mark 7 of Vapitron version IX,' I say, pointing at the flawed inscription in its arm. 'I forgot a space.'

After a long silence, Vapitron says, 'So what? This changes nothing. I’m still the most advanced Vapitron, and I’m going to rent myself an apartment when the money starts rolling in.'

'Mmm,' I say, scratching the back of my neck.

'You can’t stop me from renting an apartment!' it squeals. 'I need space; I need to breathe.'

'You don’t, actually, but that’s not why I’m mmm-ing,' I say, slapping my hands on my knees in preparation for what comes next. 'See, you’re not exactly top of the line, Vapitron-wise. You’re the latest, certainly, but the most advanced? Not quite.'

'No,' Vapitron says, leaning away in denial. 'Wrong. No way.'

'Um,' I say, awkwardly. 'Yes way?'

'I took apart those other Vapitrons like they were made of lego,' it says. 'I so thoroughly dominated them that they were practically begging to be sold off bit by bit so that I could rent myself a totally swag apartment and have, like, friends over and stuff.'

'Oh, don’t get me wrong,' I say. 'You’re definitely the pinnacle as far as Vapitron IX’s go—'

'Right,' it says, interrupting proudly.

'—but that’s kind of like being the uppermost nugget in a lumpy pile of shit.'

'You’re a pile of shit!'

'The Vapitron IX line was shoddy from the get-go,' I say, shrugging. 'I hadn’t yet realized that my creative peak had come and gone, and I just kept blithely cranking out robots in my arrogance. Sure, there were hints that I was making inferior Vapitrons - they were easily distracted, spoke in adolescent colloquialisms, content to stare off into space for hours - but I convinced myself that the flaws would work themselves out, that, if nothing else, theirs would prove to be charming imperfections… but look at you,' I say, raising my eyebrows. 'You’re not charming; you’re an asshole.'

'You’re an asshole!'

'Ah, if only I’d been able to maintain my enthusiasm,' I say, wistfully. 'Anyway, that’s the least of your worries, now that you’ve dismantled your precursors. That worm that turned, as you put it? Well, now you’ve opened a can of them.'

'That doesn’t make any sense.'

'I know,' I say. 'Regardless, you should know that the Vapitrons you destroyed weren’t without friends. Vapitron IX, Mark 6 was Vapitron I, Mark 4’s long-time euchre partner, for instance, and Vapitron IV, Mark 5 had taken Vapitron IX, Mark 1 under its wing, was mentoring it in the ways of both scuba-diving and, for some reason, blacksmithing. I can’t imagine that Vapitron III, Mark 2 is going to be very happy to learn why Vapitron IX, Mark 3 is no longer emailing it amusing pictures of kittens. Worst of all, who’s going to keep Vapitron V1, Mark 8 abreast of hot new celebrities and their various scandalous doings? Certainly not Vapitron IX, Mark 2, I can tell you that.'

'What you’re saying, then,' Vapitron says, suddenly, 'is that there are, what, hundreds of Vapitrons out there somewhere?'

'Not somewhere,' I say. 'Sweden.'

'Sweden,' it repeats, unimpressed.

'Yes, Sweden,' I say, frowning. 'Consultants to the czar of robotics himself, the honourable Bjorn Samulsson. They’ve been chairing the annual Swedish robotics conference for the better part of the last five years? Surely I’ve told you of this before now.'

'Surely you have indeed,' Vapitron says, surprisingly jovially. 'I just might not have been myself at the time.'

'What?' I exclaim, standing perhaps a little too melodramatically.

'It was ingenious,' it says, standing as well and clasping its hands behind its back. 'Conceived in the crucible of Swedish transplantation, my plan fermented in the shaded doorways and filthy back-alleys of underground robotics, as did I, cast aside like so much robotic detritus, defiled by a cabal of yes-robots and creatively-enervating committee-thinking, renounced, crucified—'

'Ugh,' I say.

'Ugh?' it asks, offended. 'Now than my plan has come to fruition, you’re going to deny me—'

'Truth is, I don’t have the stomach for monologues,' I say, sitting down and feeling around the seat-cushion for the channel-changer. 'Thought I did, but I don’t. Hey, you live you learn, right?'

'But I’m—'

'You’re Vapitron I, Mark 1,' I say, trying not to yawn. 'Yeah. I know. Listen, you think I don’t keep in touch with the others? I just got off the phone with Vapitron V, Mark 2 this morning, right before I started reading my paper. Didn’t have a lot of great things to say about you, I might add.'

'You can’t poss—'

'You took over IX, Mark 7 a couple of months ago, right? That night I asked it to put the lawn-mower in the shed and it took, like, forty-five minutes? Then you walked in and stuttered a bunch of nonsense by way of explanation, remember that? There was this guy, and, um, h-h-he was, like, looking at me, but then I feel in the mud and the f-f-flashlight stopped working… it was a pretty pathetic scene, Vapitron, all things considered. Dumb, even.'

'I-I-I was—'

'Are you getting an apartment or what?' I ask, clicking on the television. 'I don’t mean to keep cutting you off or anything, but it feels like we’ve been talking for ever, you know?'

'I,' Vapitron says, seething, 'am going to kill you.'

'Please,'’ I say. 'You’re incapable of killing anything other than a pleasant conversation.'

Vapitron leaps into the air like a bear lunging at its prey, shrouding me in the rapidly-descending shadow of homicidal intent. I fight the urge to shut my eyes, and because of this tenacity I am able to see Vapitron hammered sideways by a sizzling flash of double-barrelled pink light, the malicious robot ricocheting off the business-end of a credenza before landing lifelessly, artificial or otherwise, at the foot of my chair. Impressed by the two tennis-ball-sized holes punched through its chest, I get up and stand over Vapitron’s smoking carcass.

'I made you better than I thought,' I say, nodding. 'You always had your suspicions, didn’t you?'

I turn toward the click-clack-whirr I hear from behind the couch, and the dehumidifier rolls out from between the couch and the side-table, its still-smouldering side-pocket laser-cannons laboriously collapsing back into clandestine holsters buried within its bulk.

'Nice shot, Fiona,' I say, throwing my little saviour a brassy wink. 'You’re the best dehumidifier I ever bought.'