Hard As Nails
The dame rolled into my office like she owned the place. The usual type: shiny forehead, joints what creaked like a steam locomotive, knobby knees, built like a telephone pole...gorgeous. But she was leaking on my carpet.
“What's doing, doll?”
“My husband won't believe I ain't cheatin' on him. I just heard him on the phone arranging to meet some chump private dick--no offense.”
“Go figure,” I says to the dame. Just what I need...another turf-pounder stomping my toes. Best I drop this dame like a tin can because--damnitall, the phone. “Buff your face for a sec, doll.” Good, she's cleaning the oil off the floor. “Yeah, talk to me,” I says to the chump on the phone.
Hey, I followed my tin-can of a wife to some flea-bag private eye, and what do see? YOUR name on the door. What's the deal, sleaze bag? Working both ends of the candle? I'm thinking of coming in there and bending my wife in half and knockin' your processor platform right off your shoulders--
“Cut! Cut! Sorry guys, this just isn't working.” Evil Director hopped off his stool. “No one's going to buy into the idea of hard-boiled robot detectives. We'll just have to show some Bogart movies, again.”
“There hasn't been any new material since the writers-directors-producers-and-actors strike of 2009,” said the male roboactor. Everyone will have to get used to scab robots.”
Evil Director shook his head. “It isn't working. Sorry.”
“What about Robocop?”
“Works with human good guys and bad guys, not an all-robot cast.” Evil Director left to call a buddy who knew some animal robots. The ban on animal performers in 2015 hadn't helped his situation at all.