I, Robot Writer
“Evil, how many toes do you have?”
“All of them,” said Evil Editor.
“He's still resisting,” said Evil Journalist. “Give him another ten milliliters of truth serum...and another boot to the ribs.”
“He's almost flat-lined,” said the med tech.
“He was before we started. Do it.”
The med tech injected more serum and gave Evil Editor an enthusiastic pounding to his left rib cage.
“I think you got his attention, and broke another rib,” said Evil Journalist. “Evil, how many toes do you have?”
“Still resisting. Break another rib and--”
“No, he does have eleven toes,” said the med tech, after taking off Evil's shoes, and recovering from a faint.
“Okay, I'll do a trial question. Evil, what is the most important publisher of fiction in the world?”
“IBM,” said Evil Editor.
“The computer manufacturer?”
“They publish fiction?” asked Evil Journalist.
“They are the only publisher of fiction on the planet. They have fourteen supercomputers wired to the brain of one man who pumps out a story every ten seconds.”
“What about all the other writers and publishers?”
“They're all pseudonyms for Asimov and the other publishers are shills that market IBM's books,” said Evil Editor. "All submissions from other writers are dumped into the world's largest slush pile...the Atlantic Ocean."
“Who is this man?”
“But he's dead,” said Evil Journalist.
“Yes, but he's getting better,” said Evil Editor.
“Give him another shot to the ribs,” said Evil Journalist.