Thursday at Sinister's

It was late. Most everyone had cleared out for the night. Only the few sad regulars remained.

“Curse them,” said the man with the green tailcoat. “Curse them all. I’ll make them all pay!”

“You say that every night,” the droid next to him replied as it poured beer into what passed for it’s mouth. “You don’t do anything.”

“It’s different, now!” He slammed his glass on the bar. “They’ve worn my patience thin!”

“They made fun of your hair, didn’t they.”

“Silence!” He hissed as he patted his meticulously gelled swoosh of brown hair. “I’ll tolerate no insolence, from you least of all.”

The unblinking eyes of the machine were filled with disdain. He had been built to conquer the world. His first step in this plan had been to kill his mad creator. Now he was as down on his luck as the rest of the patrons of Sinister’s.

The man ignored him. “I’ll show those pretentious do-gooders who they’re messing with! They will know the wrath of…The Mentalist!

“More like the Stylist.”

Shut up!

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