by Robert Gryfft
Eighty surveyed my moving truck and spat a thick black drop of oil.
"'Bout time," it said. "Ya orgs bin stinkin' up the block since y'all plunked yer meatsack asses here. Good riddance."
"Amazing," I said to Joey. "You've successfully reproduced bigotry in your machines."
"My latest project," he said. "So, why are you moving?"