Dumbly I gazed at Chuck’s vacant face and extended arms. Reality was sinking in and the pain in my shoulder seemed less important. My arm, no longer really under my control, quit rubbing the clavicle area and wandered off to find something interesting to tug at. Ah, it found some of the “Do Not Grow Marijuana In Glove Compartment” stickers, which had been fired onto my stomach and legs as I tumbled across the floor. The sticker gun itself was still attached securely to my forearm, with two or three decals left on the fragment of feed tape hanging from it’s hopper.
    Presently, Chuck’s twitching leg stilled, and it seemed as if the world became silent, though factory sounds continued on unabated. I stood slowly, regaining some of my breath, and began to hesitantly walk the dozen or so steps back to what was, moments ago, my little haven at Furd. Line position 194, hydroponics installation; the place where Chuck and I toiled side by side to make the Furd Expulsion a place safe for non-narcotic glove compartment agriculture. A place now occupied by the twisted corpse of the beautiful man I called “best friend” and his slowly growing pool of blood.
    The blood washed away all thoughts of Chuck’s lunchtime revelation from my mind. Robots don’t bleed, therefore it must have been an elaborate joke, although the hand was quite convincing at the time. Suddenly overcome, I fell to my knees in front of that beautiful face. There were no tears in my eyes, just a dizzying sense of loss and.. something else. Staring at his still, staring, handsome visage, I suddenly longed to touch it as I never had in the year we worked together. I reached out toward his cheek and…
    At that moment his mouth slowly and deliberately opened and his tongue flopped out with a wet plop. I jerked my hand back in surprise, and then leaned in to read. Clearly written in raised relief on the surface of Chuck’s tongue were these words,
    ’HIDE ME, BUDDY!’
    The words seemed to be made up entirely of swollen taste buds on his tongue; they were, furthermore, in a clean, courier typeface! I rocked back onto my haunches to gain a better look at the rest of Chuck’s bloody remains and noticed only then that the volume of blood was really quite small, and smelled noticeably of strawberries. Further, his torso, on my side of the fallen decal spool anyway, had broken from his pelvis cleanly, exposing the fact that his organs were not present in a way I imagine most organs would be under these circumstances. Instead there were black plastic containers, twisted, yet shiny linkages, and a small sack of cats-eye marbles.
    Hide me, buddy, I mouthed to myself. As I considered how I would go about hiding a 180 pounds of bloody remains in a factory of two thousand workers, I realized I had already decided to obey the tongue. Actually, there didn’t even seem to be a decision to make! Funny how some things don’t seem to be open for debate–even with oneself.
    All of this took only a few seconds. I nervously cast about, wondering who might have seen what happened. Cindy, Rake and Ty, the three workers from the Expulsion center-console deep-fryer work station some 60 feet up-line, were looking curiously in my direction and pointing. Rake, the taller of the men, was standing on his tip-toes and craned his neck. Conveniently, the hydroponic tube bin was blocking their view of Chuck’s corpse, but they could clearly see the top half of the fallen decal spool. How would I keep them away long enough to make a difference?
    The answer was made for me as an effeminate, automated male voice rang out over the shop floor, accompanied by a sharp buzz,
    “A HAZARDOUS MATERIAL CONDITION IN AREA 194 IS HAPENNING, PEOPLE! IMMEDIATELY LEAVE THE VICINITY AND AWAIT INSTRUCTION!” this announcement was followed by a gruff woman’s voice speaking in Spanish, “CONDICIÓN PELIGROSA EN EL ÁREA 194. DEJE EL ÁREA INMEDIATAMENTE Y SIGA SIENDO DE HOMBRES.”
    Idly fingering the decal gun on my wrist I considered that area 194 was the hydroponic installation point…my area! Who set off the alarm? The decal spool wasn’t a hazardous material.. Cindy, from her position up-line with Ty and Rake, called out, “Joe, Chuck! Get out of there! You need help?”
    I cleared my throat and, looking again at the courier text plea on Chuck’s hanging tongue, I yelled, “We’re fine. Don’t worry, go on!” Cindy joined Rake and Ty in a hasty retreat from the line, leaving me alone with Chuck and the repeating voice-over,
    “A HAZARDOUS MATERIAL CONDITION IN AREA 194 IS STILL HAPENNING, PEOPLE! LEAVE ALREADY, AND AWAIT INSTRUCTIONS!” and then, “SI USTED ES HOMBRES VERDADEROS USTED DEJARÁ EL ÁREA 194. TIENE DESECHOS PELIGROSOS.”
    Silently thanking whatever providence brought me this welcome cover, I ran to the nearest parts cart and upended it, noisily scattering miniature hydroponic lamps across the floor. Many of them came to a halt in the miasma of red, strawberry scented ‘blood’ surrounding the decal spool. I righted the cart and wheeled it over to Chuck, carefully avoiding the many hydroponic bulbs while trodding through the sticky red fluid.
    I would probably have 10 minutes or so before the volunteer hazmat team arrived along with their union steward and his hermetically sealed coffee service. (Some union rules must never be broken)
    I squatted down next to chuck and pulled at his outstretched arms. His torso moved away from the decal spool easily; apparently the thing had split him quite cleanly. As I was grunting under the weight of his flopping upper body, tipping it into the parts cart and receiving a throbbing reminder of the continued soreness in my shoulder, I heard the sound of a motor behind me.
    Quickly dropping Chuck into the cart and shoving his arms down over his head in a futile attempt to keep him and his protruding tongue out of view, I turned around and saw a forklift approaching fast from below the mezzanine.
    Behind the wheel was a grinning, wild-eyed man with a tiny clown head on his neck.
    It was Bruce.
    “Shit, I missed you, man,” he called out on approach, “too bad about Chuck.” He looked curiously at the parts cart, complete with Chuck’s hand and arm sticking out. “What…?” he shook his head, and then with renewed purpose, “I won’t miss this time!”
    As the forklift began to accelerate toward me, I glanced at Bruce’s clown-faced little brother and finally understood my peril:
    Upon the tiny head of his undeveloped brother Bruce had carefully drawn a set of dramatic, down-swept, ANGRY green eyebrows.