Chapter Six: Rick’s Earth Parts Emporium

Chapter Six: Rick’s Earth Parts Emporium

Prod and Dusty were identical in almost every way. They stood four feet tall, including their antennae, with two legs and two arms each. Their shiny chrome torsos were forged from the same piece of metal, delivered from Earth many years ago to their builder, Tarza. Their mouths opened exactly 3.5 inches wide and 1.5 inches tall. They were so similar, and some might say such exquisite specimens of robotics, that the only notable and discernible difference between Prod and Dusty was the color of their high-definition eye lenses. Prod could be identified by her brown lenses, and Dusty by his green. Apart from that (and the fact that Dusty always wore a shining, spinning disco ball on top of his antennae) they were indistinguishable from each other.

But even if you removed all accessories and swapped their eye colors, Tarza could always tell them apart. It was a trick they tried to get her with many times, but never successfully.

“Dusty, you need to clean your disco ball,” she said as he stomped up to her foam-encased body. 

Dusty stopped moving and began to rotate the ball on his head at a blazing speed. Dust and particles flew off of it until it was as sparkly as the day Tarza found it. As it slowed back down, she was reminded of how enamored Dusty had been of it, as it rotated in front of him. How his eyes had never left it. And how he had insisted that it stay on his head from then on (except when loaning it to Prod for a practical joke).

“I’m sorry… you built these robots?” asked Jackson, with genuine surprise and not just a little bit of admiration. 

“Yes,” answered Tarza, “my real job here is engineer. Recognize anything about them?”

Jackson stared intently at Prod and Dusty. He had seen a few robots in his time, but most of them were White House staff bots that didn’t have arms, legs, or faces. They rolled around and collected things like food and trash and sometimes messages. 

“Should I?” he asked.

“Their chassises, joints, lights- all of it! All their parts were sourced from Earth. Your planet!” she said excitedly. It was most likely that she had gotten the parts directly from Rick’s Earth Parts Emporium. And if she hadn’t, she certainly would have gotten a better deal with Rick, who is known for having the best prices of any Earth-based, Earth parts emporium.

Jackson, upon seeing Tarza’s genuine smile at having built her robots from Earth parts, and finding that he liked seeing it more than he expected, decided to ignore the fact that had an equally genuine lack of knowledge of anything mechanical.

“Ah, yes! Now I see it! I’d recognize those joints anywhere!”

Tarza smiled even larger and gave him a proud nod. “There’s nothing like Earth parts. So much personality to them!”

“So, since you built them, can you make them let us go? Can we still escape?” Jackson asked. The thought of being interviewed by the Inspector a second time was making Jackson more nervous than ever. His sweat was running down from his head to his feet. 

Tarza shook her head.

“It doesn’t work like that. It’s up to them what they do,” she answered. “Besides, they’ve made good careers for themselves here and I’m proud of them. I would never ask them to risk that.”

“Escape request from captive named President Racha recorded and logged,” Prod said, while staring up at Jackson.

“Great work, Prod!” encouraged Tarza. 

Prod let out a gleeful “BEEP”. 

Jackson shook his head in discouragement. However, he was met with a sudden, yet tiny sense of encouragement when he realized that his neck was moving more freely, right where it met his clavicle. It was the exact place where sweat from a forehead might find itself after a minute or two of traveling downward.

“Tarza? Why are you stuck in foam? Why is captive, named President Racha, stuck in foam?” asked Dusty. 

“Well, the truth is, Dusty, I was trying to help the President escape,” she said. “But turns out, that’s not the President.”

Dusty stomped over in front of Jackson. Prod followed behind.

“This is not captive-named-President-Racha?” asked Dusty.

“Orders were to watch captive-named-President-Racha,” added Prod. 

“No… actually my, um, my name is…” Jackson started. Jackson’s sweat began to flow throughout his torso and limbs, and he felt the foam dissolving slowly around it. He could wiggle his fingers and bend his knees slightly. He reasoned that if he could play up his nervousness, his sweat would dissolve enough foam for him to escape.

A tiny window opened up inside Dusty’s chassis and Jackson furrowed his brow apprehensively as he saw a shiny suction cup poke out. He couldn’t help but notice that it was aimed directly at his face.

“What is he doing?” he asked.

Tarza replied excitedly, “They’re going to independently verify your identity. Brilliant, Dusty!”

With the little mobility he had in his neck, Jackson tried desperately to squirm out of the way, but within seconds the suction cup shot forward with a cord attached and stuck to Jackson’s forehead with an unsettling yet satisfying “FLERP”. Crossing his eyes to look up at the suction cup, Jackson no longer felt any need to increase his nervousness. Foam was beginning to dissolve at a rapid pace.

This was the kind of moment that would have normally sent Jackson into a state of silent confusion. However, since his conversation with Tarza, he had found it more difficult to do nothing without feeling a sense of shame. Indeed, her talk had forced him to adapt to a new response to unknown circumstances and stimuli. In this initial trial of a new method, he tried instead “loud panic”. 

“What is this thing?! What are they doing?!” Jackson tried moving his head back and forth to lose the suction cup, but only sent a rippling wave through the cord.

“Relax,” said Tarza. “He’ll give it right back.”

“Give what back??”

“Your name memory,” she replied cooly.

“My name memory? He’s going to take it? Wait! I’ll tell you my name. You can wear those glasses…” Jackson pleaded.

Tarza shook her head as much as she could. “Robs don’t wear glass. Imagine if they did,” she chuckled to Plod. 

“Imagine,” repeated Plod. 

“But I’ll just tell you! My real name is Theodore Fickle but I prefer—“

Before he could finish, Theodore Fickle (the name he was assigned at birth, but not the name that he was about to say) found himself suddenly thrust into his first grade classroom.