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HOME >> Product 0464 >> Robots Don't Drink Coffee>>

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Robots Don't Drink Coffee

James Trivers

In the near future, the aging Mafiosi will employ androids to execute their hits. The Don assigns an iMan to whack a priest, but once the machine sets his sights on the clergy, the robot miraculously falls in love, thus forcing the two of them to go on the lam.

In their cross-country trip, the robot embarks a journey of self-discovery. He learns the mechanics of a loving relationship. The priest, in turn, begins to understand true redemption and the spirituality of a machine. While all the time, they are dodging the long arm of organized crime.

$1.99

Paperback Buy Link
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eBOOK STATS:

   

Length:

21085 Words

Price:

$2.99

Sale Price:

$1.99

Published:

09-2018

Cover Art:

T.L. Davison

Editor:

W. Richard St. James

Copyright:

James Trivers

ISBN Number:

978-1-77217-089-4

Available Formats:

PDF; Microsoft Reader(LIT); Palm (PDB); Nook, Iphone, Ipad, Android (EPUB); Kindle (MOBI);

Paperback Price:

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EXCERPT

   

“NOBODY LIKES GETTING their hands bloody anymore,” moaned the Don. “My kids either want to work for Amnesty International or want to go to grad school to become architects. They take the money from the family business, but other than that, they don’t want to be involved.” His lower lip curled. “I love them to death, but they are spoiled.” He chuckled with an ironic riff. “That’s my fault I suppose.” The Don’s bloated sixty-five-year-old body spread out on the chaise lounge. His amber eyes gazed through the amber lenses of his sunglasses. We were outside in his garden on his Long Island estate. A peacock walked by the tomato patch. Not knowing what else to do with his hands, the Don fiddled with his Plexiglas tablet. His finger drifted over to where he could track his stock portfolio. He shook his head. His eyes then darted directly at me. “You, on the other hand, have been like a son to me. Always loyal. Always willing to get your hands bloody. I’d campaign for you to be a ‘made man.’” He paused. I smiled because that was a compliment. “But as you know, I can’t do that for you because . . .”

“I know. I know. I am a technoid. An iMan to be exact.” I wasn’t born; I was manufactured in Cupertino. I’ve been told that I was a “special order.” I am an android, mortal-looking killing machine made especially for the Don.

“To me,” declared the Don with his hand spread across his chest, “there is nothing artificial about you. You are a true and good soldier.”

“That’s what I am programmed for.” I am specially programmed to get my hands bloody, to execute the hits and whack jobs that none of the old-timers want to do anymore. The year is 2030, and all the dons and all the middle-aged made men look at one another and gasp that they are too old for this! Then again, why should they get their hands bloody when there is product like me out in the marketplace?

 

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