For a twelve foot tall robot with industrial drills instead of hands, there were worse gigs than being the heavy for a criminal mastermind. Sure, work was sporadic and the law was always on their tail, but the pay was good and he never had to worry where his next tune-up was coming from.
That was his cue. He walked through the ragged opening where the lobby doors to the bank had stood moments before. His boss, Doctor Dystructo (the papers were always spelling it wrong), stood in the middle of the lobby wearing his usual black get-up, fists on his hips. Dozens of people huddled on the marble floor amidst the rubble from the blasted doors. He didn’t pay them any mind. Crowd control was someone else’s job.
The Doctor raised one hand and pointed to the far wall, beyond which, if their blueprints were correct, the vault was located. He then yelled, “Drill!” and released a sinister laugh that only madmen could pull off successfully.
Drillbit could do without the theatrics, but that was the Doctor’s style. The robot cranked up his cone-shaped drills and they whirred into life. He walked through the lobby and swung his arms wide to loosen the joints. People screamed and ducked their heads to avoid being hit by the deadly drills.
Okay. Maybe he liked a little theatrics, too.
The wall was reduced to a pile of plaster and masonry in a matter of minutes. He then dug his drills into the smooth surface of the gleaming vault. Metal shards rained down around him as his drills sank further and further into the three foot thick door. He figured at this rate, they would be back at headquarters in plenty of time to catch most of the “Lost In Space” marathon on cable.
Drillbit could tell by the change in vibration that he was inches from punching through the vault door. Digging in for the final assault, he heard a commotion and turned to look back into the lobby.
Damn. It looked like he was going to miss that marathon after all.
Cops in riot gear swarmed the bank. The Doctor was face down on the floor with a cop’s knee in his back. Two more cops had their guns trained on the Doctor’s head.
If he had shoulders, Drillbit would have shrugged. Their guns couldn’t hurt him. He’d just continue drilling into the vault, grab some bags of cash, then plow through those cops and stroll out the front door. He was about to return to his work when he felt a tap on his right side. Looking down, he saw a female officer grinning up at him.
“Give it up bolt-bag,” she said as she waived her high-powered taser in his face.
Drillbit was about to show her what this “bolt-bag” could do to a human skull, when she pulled the trigger and released 100,000 volts into his metal hide.
The last thought to flash through his circuits before they fried to a crisp was that subway construction might not have been such a bad career choice after all.
Crime doesn’t pay, y’all. Just ask poor Drillbit.
This one turned out a bit sillier than I intended. And no one died. My muse is getting soft.
If you’d like to see pictures of my previous paper robot pals and read their stories, please visit my Robot-A-Month page.