As RoboGravy wanders aimlessly, his mechanical limbs jerking sporadically, he stumbles upon a dimly lit hallway. 

In the corner, Mark Flynn lies on a tanning bed, unaware of the impending chaos. 

RoboGravy's malfunctioning systems spew out a series of nonsensical directives, each more bewildering than the last:

"Directive 42: Activate toasty knuckles mode and recalibrate Bobby Bourbon's mustard levels."

"Directive 87: Calculate the cosmic significance of rubber duckies in a parallel universe."

"Directive 109: Perform an interpretive dance routine of Vinnie Lane's sex life."

Confusion and malfunction intertwine within RoboGravy's circuits, culminating in a catastrophic climax. With a swift motion of his powerful robotic arms, the tanning bed is shattered into pieces. Mark Flynn, caught off guard, finds himself pinned beneath the wreckage as RoboGravy shuts down and falls on top of him.



1!



2!!

Mark Flynn thought this dimly-lit hallway would be the safest place to tan.

He’d purchased a tanning bed that would work in low-light areas specifically to use it in this hallway.

Why?

“BECAUSE GOOD GUYS LOOK TAN!”

Regardless, as RoboGravy lays unconscious atop the rubble… Like a rat squeezing its elastic body into a pipe… The spineless, snakelike Flynn wriggles his way out from under the pin!

”DON’T USE THOSE ADJECTIVES TO DESCRIBE ME!”

The craven, slovenly unkempt Flynn manages a kickout.

Bobby walks in, sniffing the air, smelling something craven, slovenly and unkempt. He looks over at the rubble.

Charlie? Oh, holy cow!

Bobby runs in, so startled he didn't even cuss, and Bobbybombs RoboGravy! The armor shatters, and inside, we see, stark naked and very moist, Michael Graves. Graves stands up, almost unphased by the Bobbybomb, cupping his gonads in a way to hide them, and slinks off. Was becoming a robot all a ruse? TUNE INTO WARFARE TO FIND OUT! Bobby turns to Mark.

Uh, buddy, lying in that tanning bed without having a shower, you're smelling a little Charlie right now. Why don't you go have a bath, that tan is something but you're developing dreads. In your beard. That's like eating out of an asshole every meal. People are looking, seriously, soap and water and some fresh skivies.

Bobby securely unplugs the tanning bed from the wall, removing the threat of fire.

You're like a smelly little panini right now.