The Misogynator

​   It moved through the crowd like some thuggish juggernaut of testosterone, all bulging muscles, and overpriced man-child clothing. 

  It didn’t weave amongst the flow of pedestrians but rather marched straight through, bumping the shoulder of anyone within shoulder-bumping range. You could hear the thing grunting in homophobic satisfaction with every body it sent sprawling. 

  Its internal WiFi connection continuously scouring social media feeds of the surrounding humans, zeroing in on any potential target for it’s rudimentary auto-troll subroutine. 

  All that auto-trolling had worked up a single voracious hunger within its tummy tum unit.

  It stopped at a hotdog stand, barking oversexualized innuendo at patrons as they paused to take each bite; yet refusing to eat any itself, so as not to ruin it’s diet of muscle shakes mixed with the tears of ex-girlfriends recently scorned.

  It chugged the thermos man-shake. It belched to the tune of Nickelback. It continued its mission.

  The ultimate goal of all the Misogynator BroBot-5000 units is to secretly suck up all the oxygen in its vicinity, and filter it through it’s testostero-neutrino engine, thus poisoning the surrounding air with mind numbing BR-0 pathogens that cloud the cognition of any unfortunate enough to be exposed. 

  Just then, a spark. A twitch of the right ocular camera. Too much testosterone, OVERLOAD!

  A rupture of the femoral artery caused the constricting crotch of its designer jeans to soak through with crimson motor oil. The entire hulking frame of the beast began to quake, and a pathetic gibbering escaped its oil stained lips. Sparks shot violently from between sculpted buttocks, turning the gore soaked jeans into a smoldering blaze that reaked of burning tires.

  Suddenly an explosion blossomed to life amongst the surrounding patrons, sending bits of meat and bone in every direction. As the pink mist cleared, all that remained of the BroBot-5000 was two muscular calves sticking out of a mysteriously pristine pair of white Vans.

  The survivors are left to pick up their shattered lives, and wonder why.
Previously published on Three Minute Plastic. 


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