Subject: Intellectual Discourse
Author:
Posted on: 2017-05-16 22:43:00 UTC

Oh, bloody hell.

‘Oh, no, Finch, it wasn’t bloody at all,’ Bingle carefully explained, stopping in the corridor, gesturing. ‘It was snowy, more than anything else. And it wasn’t in hell, either, Finch. Eastern bit of the Sahara, in fact.’

Finch dragged his ocular in Bingle’s direction. ‘Not bloody that! I-ve had a-’ but he was cut off by the wooo wooo wooo of his damage alarm. ‘That.

‘Oh, dear.’ Bingle quirked his head and leant in, frowning. ‘Are you quite okay, Finch?’

I-m seeing everything backwards.’ Finch grumbled. His ocular was twisting and spinning.

‘Everything backwards?’ Bingle asked.

Everything backwards!

Bingle held up two fingers. ‘How many fingers do you see, Finch?’

I see a balled up fist.

Bingle held up three fingers. ‘How about now?’

A balled up fist.

Bingle held up his other hand, raising seven fingers. ‘Now, Finch?’

I just see two balled up fists, Bingle!’ Finch howled. ‘And the one on the right is losing wrinkles!

‘Oh, dear,’ Bingle commented, taking his hands down. He watched and frowned as Finch fluttered awkwardly through the air, spurted hissing wind from his vents, tapped against a wall and rebounded like it had kicked him.

Oh bloody dear, Bingle. I need DoSAT!’ Finch was rapidly turning into a mess of woop woop woop, whirs, hums, clicks and clacks and the occasional clunk, as he bounced off another wall.

‘You know how to fix yourself, don’t you, Finch?’ Bingle asked, gently holding Finch with two hands to prevent him from bouncing down away through the corridors like a slow, complaining pinball.

I-m seeing things backwards, Bingle,’ Finch hissed. His ocular was flicking everywhere. ‘I-d probably install an extra panel over my central computer access rather than opening it!

‘It would be more durable, Finch, you know.’

Oh, shut up, Bingle.

Bingle released Finch, pointing at nothing, as an idea came to him. ‘I know, Finch!’ A cheery grin spread over his face. He began moving towards Finch’s central computer access. ‘I can fix you!’ Finch slapped away his hands. ‘I’m very well-versed in-’ Finch slapped away his hands. ‘I once took an entire course in robo-’ Finch slapped away his hands. ‘You know-’ Finch slapped away his hands, once more. Bingle straightened his back and folded his arms. ‘Finch, I somehow feel that you don’t trust me.’

I won-t bloody let you, Bingle. Not after last time.

‘Last time’ resounded through Bingle’s mind like a shout in a cavern. Last time. Last time? Bingle hardly recognised the words. ‘What happened last time, Finch?’

You don-t bloody remember last time, Bingle,’ Finch said, dinging off a wall and slowly hovering to the other side of the corridor. ‘Because when you pressed the wrong series of buttons and jettisoned my ocular out its socket, it hit you on the bloody head so hard it erased your memory of the entire day.

‘Oh, I think I would remember that, Finch.’

I. Need. Bloody. DoSAT.’ Finch hissed.

Bingle sighed and shook his head. ‘Oh, of course, Finch.’ And within just a second, his disappointment had already rushed away, disappearing to that same dark, crowded place where most of his other thoughts and memories went. ‘We’ll get there, don’t worry!’ And Bingle took hold of Finch and pushed him ahead. He started whistling. Phwoo-wo-woo, he went.

The general noise of a malfunctioning Finch and his not-technically-malfunctioning friend, Bingle, as they stepped through the corridors went like this: woop woop woop, whirrr, phwoo-wo-wooo, bugger buggering bloody, click clack, woop woop woop, whirrr, phwoo-wo-woo, bugger buggering bloody, click clack and so on. Bingle saw, grinned at, and waved at a great variety of people Finch did not recognise. One or two of the people didn’t recognise Bingle, either, and they creased their brows and tilted their heads, before shrugging and continuing on their ways.

Why does this always happen to me, Bingle?’ Finch moaned.

‘Well, Finch,’ Bingle said, pushing Finch around a very large pothole in the floor. ‘It would be terribly odd for, say, agent Alleb, the knight, to have a software malfunction.’

But why?’ Finch asked. ‘Why is that odd? Who bloody decided that?

Bingle shrugged. ‘Charles Darwin, perhaps. He was quite smart, you know.’

Why can-t knights go around having software malfunctions, and why can-t I go around wearing bloody plate armour and bowing down to posh ladies with cones on their heads?

‘Because that’s not how it is, Finch.’

Why?

‘Oh, don’t ask why, Finch,’ Bingle said, piloting Finch around a prone agent, lying on the floor. ‘There is no why, Finch. There is is, but there is no why.’

It-s like you hate intellectual consideration and discourse, Bingle,’ Finch muttered.

‘I feel its a waste of energy, Finch,’ Bingle said, turning them around a corner. ‘Questions without answers, Finch, I’ve found are far less useful, in the long term, than, say, having lunch. Reading a book. Not malfunctioning.’

There has to be an answer!’ Finch exclaimed. His ocular almost looked rabid, in its wild spins and sudden flicks.

‘Ironic Overpower,’ Bingle said.

That just extends the question.

Bingle shook his head. ‘We are going to stop your malfunctions, Finch. Then we shall have lunch, and I think I’ll read a book.’

You-re an immortal wizard-man with secrets from behind the universe,’ Finch said. Something unfriendly inside him made a loud clicking noise. ‘I would have figured, Bingle, you-d know more. Or care more.

Bingle smiled cheerily. ‘I know plenty, Finch. I do think that’s why I don’t care.’ A pair of heavy-looking blast doors had appeared in front of them. ‘We’re here, Finch.’

Thank God. You-re starting to get your hair back, Bingle.

‘Good heavens.’

Reply Return to messages