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The Door closes behind her. "We'll take it from here. Thank you, Mister Brantley." says a tall associates with hair pulled back in ponytail standing next to 943.5.
"We need to go to the fucking junkyard, op2." says 9cubed dragging a cigarette. "Ummm, yah, aight man." replies op2 disingenuously. "We need parts to repair some of these fucking subs. Crime Circuit's breathing down our neck, the fucking racketeers, a brotha can't even pirate on the side to make ends meet these days." It takes a while but despite their failure to find parts, Op2 eventually makes the repair a month or two later.
Back on the street corner, under the hue of the neon sign patchwork and streetlight, this Brantley-bot lights a a menthol cigarette and takes a deep drag "The Behemoth Club eats more eggs than anyone should. Eating societies should be banned." he says turning to his associate."I concur." remarks Colonel Purple, unimpressed as he looks as his old tarnished and dingy gameboy and thinks "Fucking Lenisker Corps....trying to get me to lead their reps to a mermaid egg processing station." a thought that bounced off his mind from this Brantley-Bots processing core. They are crumpocrats, sick underworld Hellfire Club-like bunch. "Let's find Mr. Pringle then shall we?" suggest Brantley. "No, Pringles shan't be found, you know how he and those high-level squirrels like to frequent those firey strip clubs." Colonel purple replies. "Nonsense" insist Brantley "We'll call up the old clown and the three of us will make a night of trying to find him" Colonel purple yawns, "The clown is intoxicated, I can only forgo this mission with one of my proxy skins." Colonel purple has been under the weather after having spent so much time in the tunnels recently. Hit release of initial Brantley-bot.
"I miss the days when crime was still a game." Colonel Purples states simply, looking squarely at Brantley out of his left eye. A drunk Bobby Pringle overhears them in the corner pocket of spacetime.