Stranger, Refuse, If You Can, What We Have To Offer

Stranger, Refuse, If You Can, What We Have To Offer

A Story by Mike Lamb

Why it's best to keep business and pleasure separate.


Benjamin has sex with robots. He's not proud of that.

Now everybody's got their own kink, and most people tend to mind their own business about it, because deep down we're all basically just a bunch of sick freaks with too many nerve endings for our own good. But Benjamin's case was a little different--it was part of his job. He was a product tester for a company that made high-end luxury sedans before expanding their inventory to include things like pleasure droids with built-in web cams and MP3 players. Benjamin used to test drive cars. Now he f***s walking toasters.

Everyday is the same. He walks into a little white room with nothing in it but a naked machine on a table. He unzips his pants and sticks his fork in the socket, and he hopes for the best. The worker's comp forms are awkward enough as it is.

"Here, put your dick in this and let me know if you feel a slight electrical shock. Really? And I thought we fixed that. Well what about this one? Damn. We need to get these babies shop-ready and fast."

A panel of his supervisors are required to watch and take notes from behind the glass window. There's generally a lot of snickering. There's an intercom speaker that allows the supervisors to give helpful suggestions to Benjamin as he works.

"Okay Benjamin, can you hear me? Good. Have you initiated the entry phase? Good. Comfortable? Too loose? Too snug? Good. How's the temperature? Warm, cold, in-between? Good. Okay, we're gonna need you to perform a few basic response tests, are you ready? Good. Hey don't make that face, it'll be over before you know it. We just need a little bit more data to get out all the bugs. And the crabs. Ha ha, sorry that's a little joke I do. Okay, first we're gonna need you to test out the leg movement. Okay, good. Will they go any further than that? Excellent, very nice. Alright, now we're going to do some impact tests. We're gonna need you to slap her a*s for us, okay? Gonna have to do it harder than that. Harder. Still not doing it right. Come on Benjamin, don't think we won't fire you. That's better. Now slap her tits and call her a dirty b***h. Benjamin, where are you going? We're not going to unlock the door, you might as well just get it over with. This is important research, you know."

Francis--Mr. Dickenson--was Benjamin's new boss and the perpetual destroyer of his pride.

"On a scale of one to ten, one being not so bad and ten being screaming horrible agony, how would you rate the pain? Really? Well that's not good. Can't have the reviews mentioning that."

Car sales were down. Sexbots were the hot new item on everyone's Christmas list. The market was starved and the technology was still new and extremely hazardous. People were lined up waiting to buy their very own robot w****s. But was it safe? Not yet. But it would be. That's why Benjamin's job was so important.

"Look, you're the one that triggered her combat mode, you figure out how to make her stop. Try the little red button on the back of her neck. It's not? Look again. It's on the diagram."

The factory was located in the industrial district of Hell (one of the Eastern Hells), Fifth Circle. Every Hell has a Fifth Circle just like every town has a Main Street, and most of them look about the same. Lots of smog and grit and blue collar angst.

This was Benjamin's Hell.

"Don't be ridiculous, of course she's not possessed. She's a robot, her head is supposed to swivel that way, and she's programmed to speak over four thousand languages including Latin and backwards English. Now, the vomit we still can't actually account for."

Admittedly, Benjamin's job wasn't as terrible as most of the alternatives, but test driving the cars was what he was hired to do. It had a certain machismo to it, like a stuntman or a drag-racer. In his mind he was a secret agent, a bank robber, Steve Mcqueen and Evel Knievel. He was every car chase from every episode of Miami Vice. But now he fornicates with robots while twenty smirking people with executive identification badges watch and take notes and make inappropriate comments. In his mind he's mowing the lawn.

"What do mean, stuck? Well we could call the maintenance crew, but they're on lunch. They should be back in an hour or two. What? Can't you hold it? No, you should of thought of that earlier. You can try, but you'll just electrocute yourself."

When Francis invited Benjamin to come out and fraternize with the managers one weekend, it seemed a little strange. They weren't friends, and even for them to be considered enemies would have required mutual acknowledgement. If a dog tries to eat a bug, it doesn't make them enemies no matter what the bug thinks. And the dog will never know or care the difference.

So Benjamin accepted the offer reluctantly, and only after his excuses were all overruled. Francis would send a car to his house. No trouble, no trouble at all.

Benjamin went home to his tiny, lonely house in his poor, dirty neighborhood. He watched TV and waited. His ride would be here soon. Maybe a taxi. Maybe a limo. He walked outside and surveyed the streets for passing limousines. There were none. There was only a speeding black van. It slammed on the brakes, skidding directly in front of Benjamin's house. The side door was thrown open and four men in black hooded robes and animal masks jumped out to seize him. They tied a sack over his head and used a hypodermic needle to put him to sleep. The van took off again in a flash. None of the neighbors thought this was odd. It was just that kind of neighborhood.


"Ready for some fun, Benjamin?"

"Mr. Dickenson? Sir?"

"Call me Francis, please."

"Where am I?"

Someone removed the bag from Benjamin's head. They were in a mansion filled with bizarre and perverse artwork. The room was lit by candles. People were circled around Benjamin. He was on the floor.

He looked around and saw two familiar faces and two unfamiliar ones. There was Francis, his questionable host. And there was a man that Benjamin vaguely recognized from work as Bob, Francis's brother, also one of the supervisors. Bob smoked a pipe and looked like he was stuck in the 1950s. The two strangers were called Earl and Dirk. Dirk was short and slender with dark hair. Earl was tall and monstrous with white hair.

They all made Benjamin uncomfortable.

"This is the boy from the factory, then?" asked the white-haired monster that resembled a man, but loosely sketched.

Francis smiled and nodded.

"I hear you put on quite the show," Earl said to Benjamin with a horrible grin.

Benjamin rose to his feet and mentioned that it was getting late and he should probably leave, but that he appreciated the hospitality. This statement was regarded by the four as hilarious.

Earl continued, "Come now, 'ave a drink. Dirk, get the absinthe. What do you think, two pills? You're about a two pill man, aren't ya Bennie boy? Course you are. Dirk, drop two in Bennie boy's drink. Put one in mine as well."

Benjamin was not enjoying himself. This much was apparent.

Dirk slithered over to Benjamin and presented him with a drink. Benjamin smiled nervously and said nothing as the four stared back at him, grinning insidiously.

"What did you put in this?"

"Uppers. Downers. It's a broken elevator," said Dirk, still smiling.

Benjamin responded with a blank stare. He no longer felt the need for polite displays of faked smiles and forced laughter.

Earl became impatient and grappled Benjamin from behind, placing one hand on his wrist and the other around his throat. He forced the wine glass to Benjamin's lips. "I had a dog once...wouldn't take his medicine. So we had to grab him and hold him down. Had to pry his mouth open and just shove it in there. The trick is to rub his throat until he swallows."

Benjamin struggled to get free, spitting out half of the drink and nearly choking on the other half. More laughter emerged from the four.

Benjamin's blood boiled.

"Relax, you're among friends," Francis said. "There's someone I'd like you to meet."

A woman entered the room. Platinum blonde in a white dress. She sauntered over to Benjamin, but with a certain stiffness in her movements. She stripped off her clothes. The four howled with approval.

"Please to sex with me. I am happy for f**k." Robot voice and a bad translator.

They held him down.

"I am turbo action s**t. You are big sex c**k."

He's pinned to the floor. He can't escape.

"You are bad dog. I punish you with hot vagina-cat."

In his mind he's mowing the lawn.

The four watched and laughed. And they drank, and drank, and drank.

The pleasure droid stopped. Her eyes flashed red. Her latex skin peeled away to reveal the metal frame beneath. "Bad touch! Bad touch!" she screamed as her head spun in circles.

Benjamin shoved the malfunctioning droid off of him and ran towards the front door. His path was blocked by a very large and very unfriendly baboon in a red devil costume. He had not accounted for this possibility.

The four put on the animal masks and slowly rose up from their seats to pursue the escaping guest. Earl, the bull. Dirk, the rat. Bob, the pig. Francis, the goat. And Benjamin. The prey. The chase had begun.

The baboon was creeping closer, growling. Benjamin made a run for the staircase. He stopped midway. A door along the second floor balcony creaked open on rusty hinges. Out poured the wolves, howling mad and starving. Benjamin froze in panic for a split second, then retreated back down the staircase, towards everything horrible. But the wolves were the fastest things chasing him, and that was a detail of grave concern.

The sex robot had gone haywire. All spinning razors and lightning. It had completely abandoned all attempts at seduction. It no longer resembled anything female, except for the dreadful rage and abstract terror that lurks deep down in the soul of a woman.

Benjamin traced out escape routes in his head. He was dead against the wolves. He was dead and raped against the baboon. He was terrified of the sexbot. And that left only the four depraved drunks. He charged at them, full speed, mind swimming in an adrenalin frenzy. Luck was with him. He caught them off-balance and off-guard as he plowed through, knocking two of them to the ground. He knocked over a candelabra that sparked a raging fire so quickly you would have thought that the candle flame had been plotting the arson all day.

Benjamin found himself bottlenecked in a narrow hallway leading only to locked doors. Flames rose higher and higher at his back. And the wolves were getting closer.

The locked doors of the hallway all opened at once. More strangers in black hooded cloaks. They came towards him with knives.

At the end of the hallway there was an elevator. It opened. There was another robed man inside. He held a sacrificial dagger with a serpentine blade.

Benjamin, still in overdrive, dove for the man's legs, knocking him over and sending him sprawling down the hallway. To the wolves.

Benjamin jumped to his feet and began banging on the elevator button so hard he nearly broke his finger. As the doors slid shut, he watched the robed man being devoured by the relentless hellhounds. The others stayed behind the flames, watching.

A raw blistered hand gripped the door before it could close completely. One of the knife wielding cultists--because Benjamin was certain that this could only be the lair of some twisted cult or depraved secret society--managed to force his way through the flames, past the wolves, and into the elevator. There was a struggle as the elevator sank to the lower levels of the mansion. Benjamin fought the faceless burning man to the floor. He grabbed his right wrist and snapped the arm at the elbow. The cultist screamed and dropped the knife. Benjamin picked it up and used it on his adversary. It was a thorough job. The black robe was still burning. Benjamin stomped out the flames until he heard bones crack.

Alone in the elevator with a fresh corpse. A moment of panic. Where was he headed? Which way out? And what else was waiting for him?

No time for that. Get your head straight. Focus.

The elevator came to a halt. The doors slid open. Benjamin stood tense and wired, coiled like a spring.

It was dark. His eyes took a moment to adjust. Shapes in the shadows. Glints of metal.

Cars. They were cars. He was in the mansion's underground garage where Francis kept his personal collection.

The only thing that Benjamin was more skilled at than driving cars was stealing cars. His career path started in a dark place, and he hasn't always been the tax-paying, law-abiding citizen he is now.

He went straight for the GTO. His type always does. And why not? It's a man's car. Pure sex and power. Alpha male on four wheels.

And what's this? Not even locked! Keys in the ignition! This is too easy.

Isn't it?

Doesn't matter. A gift horse is a gift horse, and he needed this one now more than anything. He cranked the engine. It purred and roared. Benjamin gripped the wheel slowly, but firm. There was lust in his heart, but of a much different kind. Not the mandatory autopilot sex drive he called on to maintain his daily job performance at the sexbot factory. No, that was different. It was like sleepwalking. Benjamin had not truly been awake for quite some time.

He was awake now.

As he pulled out in search of the exit, he glimpsed a shaft of light from the elevator doors in his rear view mirror. The doors slid open and a figure stepped out. The silhouette of horns. The head of a goat.


Benjamin accelerated. Francis was almost immediately on his tail in a black Bently, headlights glaring like eyes of white hot flame.

Benjamin weaved around the lot full of cars, desperately searching to find...

There. An exit. A tight one-lane tunnel on a sharp incline. Benjamin punched the gas. Francis was right behind him.

Francis pushed the GTO to eighty. Then ninety. The Bently kept pace.

Francis popped open the glove box. There was a revolver inside. He smiled. He gripped the gun and rolled down the window. He glanced back, trying to aim the shot in his mind while keeping his left hand clamped on the wheel in a vice grip. Francis would have exactly 2.5 seconds to duck or swerve before Benjamin lined up the shot and pulled the trigger. Failing to do so would result in a bullet penetrating the thin sheet of glass between the barrel and his forehead. Benjamin had an intimate working knowledge of angles and trajectories. He was a master of geometry, collecting degrees at pool halls and shooting ranges over the years.

"Goodbye, Francis," he whispered to himself. Quickly, he threw his right arm over his shoulder and out the window. It was an awkward angle but his aim was perfect. He pulled the trigger.


F**k! No bullets!

Click, click, click, click, click.

He threw the gun at the black Bently in pursuit. It collided with the windshield, making a spinning web of fractures in the glass. Francis swerved and hit the wall, scraping sparks and grinding to a halt.

Benjamin laughed hysterically. Maybe luck was on his side after all.

120 mph. The end of the tunnel was in sight. Blue skies and fluffy white clouds. The night was finally over. It was a new day and Benjamin was home free, away from the clutches of his perverse and wicked hosts. And with a new car, too. He couldn't help but smile.


"You know how lucky you are? You should be dead right now. We had to rip that car apart to get you out. You must've been doing over a hundred miles an hour when you hit that wall!"

Benjamin opened his eyes to blinding white light. He couldn't speak. There was an oxygen mask over his face. He was hooked up to tubes and he felt dizzy. He was lying on a hospital bed.

Why am I in the hospital? he tried to ask, though it didn't come out in any precise, intelligible words.

"Yeah, your buddy called us just in time. Said you got drunk and drove straight into the mural on the garage wall!"

Mural? Benjamin tried to say. All that came out was, "Muuh?"

"Yeah, damnedest thing. The wall was painted up just like a blue sky horizon. And you just smashed right into it like a bad cartoon gag. What were you thinking?"


"Well, don't strain yourself too much. You need your rest. Oh and by the way, these flowers came in for you." The doctor held up the card for Benjamin to see.

Benjamin: Don't worry about the car, I can just deduct it from your pay. Get well soon.

Your pal, Francis.

P.S.--See you Monday morning at work.

© 2012 Mike Lamb

Author's Note

Mike Lamb
This is a story that takes place in the world of Jack's Inferno, and features the characters of Bob and Francis from my novel. The title of this story is taken from an inscription in Latin in the chapel of the real life Hellfire Club of the eighteenth century where many strange rituals and depraved drunken orgies were rumored to have taken place. The character of Francis is loosely based on non-fiction accounts of Sir Francis Dashwood, leader of the Hellfire Club.

My Review

Would you like to review this Story?
Login | Register


You continuously surprise me, story is simplistic and amazing in all it's forms.

Posted 13 Years Ago

Share This
Request Read Request
Add to Library My Library
Subscribe Subscribe


1 Review
Added on September 5, 2010
Last Updated on March 15, 2012
Tags: hell, horror, comedy, cult, sex with robots


Mike Lamb
Mike Lamb

greenville, NC

Artist, writer, and a drunken lunatic prophet. I am the author of Jack's Inferno, a dark comedy bizarro/horror novel about Hell, previously published through Wordplague (now defunct). I am also a pro.. more..

Stigmata Stigmata

A Story by Mike Lamb