text: [SF] Beer and Bots &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Twenty years of marriage *God,* he thought, *he could do less time for murder.* Michael sat in the driveway, the Chevy idling loudly. Lydia's obnoxious solar powered miniature excuse for a car was mercifully absent. If he was lucky, she’d gotten hung up in traffic, better yet - maybe even a wreck, he thought halfheartedly, enjoying the moment alone in the cab of his truck. &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; He was in no mood to fight with his wife. What he wanted was to relax in his recliner, drink a beer and watch the Dodgers without her nightly friggen' tirade, but knowing her that wasn't likely. &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; What had she said to him the night before, “You're not the man I married anymore,” That’s right, he thought to himself, grinning as he recalled his response, "You know what Lydia, you ain't no spring chicken anymore, either." &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; He tossed his keys where she *liked* them to go and grabbed a cold one out the fridge. Halfway through the first bottle he grabbed another and headed for the living room. Something in his peripheral stopped him dead in his tracks. &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; *He* was sitting in his chair. *He*, as in the exact damn personification of himself in polymer synthetic flesh. And the damned thing was smiling at him like some nightmarishly happy concierge. &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; "What in the hell..." Michael said, his beer suddenly seeming suspended in front of him on its way to his mouth. &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; "Good evening, Michael. I took the liberty of letting myself in. You'll find the spare key back in its place under the....." &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; "Youuu...... youu... you shut your face," he stammered, his beer apparently unfrozen now, he pointed it with an outstretched arm at the bot like a weapon. &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; ,"I cannot shut my face, Michael. Please examine the Synathalife 11097-A3 owner's manual online for further...." &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; "SHUT UP," he enunciated each word slowly. &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; "Command understood," the bot answered still smiling, tilting its head every once in a while, like a human, Michael noted. &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; *She'd gone and done it- she'd finally gone and done it,* he thought. &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; He needed another beer. He needed lots of beer. Michael cracked open the unopened bottle half forgotten in his hand, downed it faster than if he were in college then made his way slowly to the couch across from his synthetic doppelganger. &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; You had to admire what they could do these days. He, *it* smelled like a new car, like polymer. Its skin was smooth, impossibly smooth. Hell, it even had a bronze tan that looked like he'd just got back from the Caribbean. &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; To add insult to injury, the robotic bastard looked a hell of a lot younger than he did. It was thinner by a good thirty pounds, taller by several inches and even had the build he'd worked so hard for when he gave a crap ten years ago. And then there was its hair. *Not a single damn gray hair on it, Michael thought.* &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; *What other enhancements did you put on my credit card*, he wondered, fending off a sudden angry sense of inadequacy. &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; "Reason for purchase?" Michael demanded. &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; “I’m sorry Michael, but you do not have the authority for such a query. " &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; His face snickered in irritation. He finished his latest beer and pointed a bottle once again to the synth. “Resend query. Password,” he paused in thought, “Admin. Reason for purchase? " &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; The bots face, *his face* tilted strangely and twitched for several seconds. &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; "Query received. Reason for purchase noted: Want a better version of my husband. " &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; ”*Oh hell no*," Michael snarled. "*Get outta my damn chair*!" &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; With perfect posture, his robotic counterpart stood, complying contently. &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Michael could hear the sound of Lydia's keys rattling at the front door and then the sound of her dropping them the ground. &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; "For crying out loud, how freaking hard is it to get someone to open the door? " &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; "Lydia needs assistance," the bot said, moving towards the door, as if ready to swoop in and open it at her beck and call. “Would you like to assist, Michael?" &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; "I'm good,” he answered flippantly, turning on the game and leaning back into *his* chair with a wide angry grin. "Nah, buddy- she's *all yours.