It was increasingly obvious that Thomas Edison’s tongue was not nearly as agile as he had suggested by mail, so Archimedes fed the sheep their biscuits and politely excused himself from the study.

Upon reaching the foyer, he discovered his bowler missing from its usual place on the hat rack between the native head-dress and the red leather beanie cap.

Nearby, a fish bowl swayed through the air like a drunk Irishman

 flying an aeroplane.

“Hey duck,” said Finley the telekinetic fish, “Why ya sweatin’?  And what the hell was all that bleating about?”

“Finley,” said Archimedes calmly, “Do you by any chance know what happened to my hat?”

“Yer hat?  Yeah, the butler took it.  I was gonna stop him, but he looked all gimpy and I din’t want to catch nothin’, y’know?”

Fig. 1: Scenes such as the one pictured above are highly unlikely. If you are seeing such a thing in real life, it is probable you are suffering a stroke.

Archimedes found the butler in the small dungeon Mr Edison had set aside for him beside the arsenic distillery.  It was very dark inside, as if the light had become self-aware, realized where it was, and fled in horror.

Mr Rochambeau was sitting at his table, gently spoon-feeding porridge to an automaton, which was wearing a very familiar hat.

“Good heavens!” gasped Archimedes, “So you did steal my hat!”

Mr Rochambeau immediately threw himself at their mercy:

“Oh please, masters!” he wailed, “please do not tell Mr Edison of this!  I’m allergic to rubber, and I won’t be able to sit for weeks!”

“I’ll reserve my judgement until you explain yourself,” said Archimedes sternly.

“Kind sirs, I stole it for my automaton, Elvis.  He has a heart of clockwork, but it yearns for a barmaid named Daisy, and I thought the hat might make him more presentable in his wooing.”

“Presentable?  With the duck’s hat?” snickered Finley in his bowl.

Fig. 2: While many better-known butlers are quite handsome and capable, some are ugly as sin and best left un-remembered.

Archimedes looked at the automaton: a patchwork creation, like it had been built by a half-blind, half-crippled, fully-inept demi-man with claws for hands and a smattering of epilepsy and narcolepsy.  Like Mr Rochambeau, only taller.

“You built this yourself?” he asked the butler.

“Yes sir, in my spare time.  I was going to patent it, but Mr Edison said it was worthless, so I sold him the rights for a penny.”

“As you should,” nodded Archimedes, “Ugly people need not climb social ladders — they would scare the upper classes’ children.  Now then!  Your automaton dreams of a lady?”

“Daisy,” confirmed Mr Rochambeau.

“Well then!  I think it falls upon us to help him win her heart!”

“Thank you, master!” said Elvis suddenly, “For all I want in my unnatural mechanical life is to touch Daisy gently every night as she sleeps!”

“Creepy little bugger, ain’t ya?” noted Finley.

Fig. 3: Automatons are steam-powered creatures built in the form of mankind, except when materials are running low and legs are swapped out for a pogo stick.

“I have been teaching Elvis the wonders of poetry,” ventured Mr Rochambeau as Finley made gagging faces in his bowl.

“Poetry!” beamed Archimedes, “Inspired!  Which poets exactly?”

“All of them!” said the butler, throwing the cover off a large scroll-laden contraption with arms, levers and cogs galore.  “I built this machine to boil all the great works into their purest essences: genius, rhythm, and philosophical blubbery.  I then feed the result to the automaton in his porridge!”

“Marvellous!” gasped Archimedes, “What do you call it?”

“Apple cinnamon surprise.”

“No, the machine.”

“Ah!  The Lithovisoreproductograph!”

“You suck at naming stuff,” observed Finley.

Archimedes and Mr Rochambeau both agreed the best course of action would be to see what Elvis could do with his vast knowledge of poetry and a dashing bowler hat.

Fig. 4: Scientists predict that every home will have a Lithovisoreproductograph by the turn of the century, as long as someone comes up with a better name.

They arrived at the bar shortly after the dinner rush, and upon catching sight of Daisy, Elvis’ jaw dropped.  After a few twists with a screwdriver, he was good as new, and ready to proceed.

“Hello, Elvis,” said Daisy shyly.

“Daisy!” Elvis sang out, beginning his poetry, “The name which sets my heart afire!  The light which guides me!  Of which I’ll never tire!”

Daisy blushed and Archimedes nudged Rochambeau approvingly.

“He’s pretty good, isn’t he?”

“Daisy!” Elvis continued, “I cannot fathom my good luck!  Let’s steal away!  To be alone, so we may f—”

“Elvis!” gasped Archimedes, dragging the automaton to the side, “Let’s try a new verse, shall we?”

“Elvis!” whispered Finley, “This time, rhyme with ‘row me’!”

Fig. 5: Since you are reading this book, you are probably not be familiar with the subject pictured above. These are called “women”. They will not talk to you.

“Nonsense!” spat Archimedes sternly, “Continue softly, and then when you can see she likes it, whisper sweet nothings in her ear.”

“Yes, sir,” nodded Elvis, heading back to Daisy.

“You take all the fun out of life,” grumbled Finley.

“Daisy,” Elvis said softly, “I dream of you both day and night.  Your face, it haunts me.  A lovely sight.”

Daisy giggled quietly to herself, smiling sweetly.  Sensing the moment was right, the automaton reached his hand to her, brushing her cheek lightly, and then, with passion…

… ripped her ear off her head.

“Holy mother of Christ!” screamed Daisy, falling onto the floor.

Elvis began whispering into the severed ear in a loving way, oblivious to Daisy’s screaming and Finley’s mad cackles of glee.

In the end, they returned the ear and decided it best to retire back to the Edison estate for the night, as the locals were beginning to locate pitchforks and so forth.

Fig.6: Despite their obvious complexity, automatons have the mental faculties of a two-year-old child who was locked in a small cupboard with rats until he finally stopped crying for his blankie so damn much.

“That did not go as planned,” sighed Mr Rochambeau after his sixth glass of sherry.  “Perhaps Elvis will never find true love.”

“Poppycock!” said Archimedes, rummaging through his trunk.  “It was a minor setback, nothing more.”

“Duck,” said Finley, “Gettin’ told ‘I already have a boyfriend’ is a setback.  What we saw’s called ‘mutilation’.  Funny as it was, ain’t nothin’ gonna make her love Mr Pee Bolts now.”

“You forget the truest way to a lady’s heart, Finley!”

“Gamma hydroxy butyrate?”

“A rose!” exclaimed Archimedes, unveiling a simple, iron-clad flower in his feathered hand.  Mr Rochambeau gasped, though he tended to do that for all shiny objects.

“This is my mechanical rose!” proclaimed Archimedes, “I call it the Rose-oscope Beta!”

“Thank you, sir!” enthused Elvis, “With this, I shall surely be able to touch Daisy gently each night as she sleeps!”

Fig. 7: The true mark of a gentleman is the ability to create artificial versions of natural objects for no other reason than to boast about it at dinner parties.

The next evening, the duck, the fish, the butler and the automaton went back to the bar, where they found Daisy tending to customers.  None of whom was sober enough to be frightened by the large bloodied bandage she had wrapped around her head.

“Daisy,” said Elvis meekly, “I am sorry about your ear.”

Daisy seemed non-committal.

“It’s alright,” she replied, “It don’t hurt s’much with t’morphine ‘n such.  Oh!  A butterfly’s on y’nose an… an… shhh!  Fairies!”

As Daisy tried to flap her arms and fly away, Elvis took the Rose-oscope Beta from his pocket and held it out to her.  

“This is for you,” he said, “A token of my love.”

 “Oooo!  Pr’tty flowers!  The fairies’ll shit’emselves!”

When she took the contraption in her hand, the petals of the flower opened wide and began to dance to a tiny music box from within!  It was so beautiful that Ross the Cook cut another one of his fingers off in distraction.

Fig. 8: All women are easily confused by cute and shiny baubles, especially those that play music. Paradoxically, toymakers almost never get laid.

“Marvellous work!” said Mr Rochambeau.

“It’s just a little something I threw together one night,” said Archimedes modestly.  “It’s not as if it will change the world.”

“Nah, that’s yer Crap-oscope Beta.  Ooo, metal poles wipin’ my ass!  Sounds like a great idea.”

“Ignore the fish.  He eats his own faeces.”

“Hey!  There’re little clocks in there!” exclaimed Daisy, reaching her finger towards the centre of the Rose-oscope Beta.

“Wait!  Not the gear core…!” shouted Archimedes.

But in less time than it takes to say ‘Mr Dreyer’s Minced Beef Patties’, the Rose-oscope Beta had managed to suck both Daisy’s hands into its merciless miniature machinery.  She toppled onto the ground, screaming in agony as the contraption whirred and ground like a hummingbird drunk on six-and-a-half shots of vodka.

Fig. 9: Members of the female sex should never be allowed to meddle with a man’s machinery, as they will often suffer the consequences.

After sending Daisy off in a cab to Dr Ogilvy, our heroes retreated back home once more, whereupon Finley locked himself in the study with Elvis, leaving Archimedes and the butler to drink sherry in uncomfortable silence.

“I rather liked the Rose-oscope,” sighed Mr Rochambeau.

“Beta.  Rose-oscope Beta.  It wasn’t done yet.  She knew the risks. It’s implied in the name.  I’ll have my lawyer call on her in the morning, the vile wench.”

“Oh come now, Mr Archimedes sir.  All’s well that ends well.  Dr Olgivy is a well-liked taxidermist.  And now you know to cover the gear core in the next iteration!”

“Cover the gear core?  Nonsense!  Too much work!  I’ll just append a note in the ‘read me’ pamphlet!”

“Very good, sir,” said Mr Rochambeau uncertainly.

“Do you think Elvis will ever capture his true love?”

“Certainly, sir.  Eventually she’ll be too crippled to resist.”

Fig. 10: While friendships can develop between members of different classes, they often lead to herpes, and are frowned upon by most respected sociologists.

The next evening, Finley invited his companions to the bar once more, where Elvis was to make another attempt at wooing Daisy.

“What tricks have you given him, fish?” asked Archimedes skeptically, “Poetry and material gifts failed him… what else could win the heart of a lady?”

“Just you wait an’ see, ol’ ducky ol’ pal.”

Elvis found Daisy serving pints to a table of rowdy schoolchildren (all up past their bedtimes!)  He tapped her on the shoulder, and when she turned, everyone but Elvis gasped in horror!

Where her soft hands had once been, there remained only heavily-bandaged and bloodied stumps, stained with beer and pretzel grease!

“Good heavens!” gasped Archimedes, “how unsanitary!”

Fig. 11: Unfortunate people often get what they deserve.

“Daisy!” said Elvis lovingly, “I am sorry about your ear.  And I am sorry about your hands!”

“‘s okay,” slurred Daisy drunkenly, “I’ve gottem mounted ab’ve m’fireplace ‘n stuff.  Hey Elvis!  ‘s you!  Tell me a poetry, boyo!”

Elvis gave a quick glance to Finley, who nodded back confidently.

“Watch and learn, duck.  Watch and learn.”

“Yo, bitch!  Stop stringin’ me along!” barked Elvis suddenly.  Daisy, deep in the wondrous cavern of morphine addiction, took a moment to understand what he’d said.  “If you want summa this, you gots to get movin’, ho!  I ain’t waitin’ round forever!”

Archimedes began to inch subtly towards the exit.

“But… but… I…” stammered Daisy as Elvis strutted.

“Elvis!  Do it!  Go!” hissed Finley.

And before Archimedes could intervene, Elvis the automaton wound his arm back, and very firmly, swatted Ms Daisy on the bottom.

Fig. 12: Taking love advice from a talking telekinetic fish is akin to juggling flaming machetes on a sack of nails inside a dynamite factory.

It only took two-and-a-half seconds for Daisy to snap out of her stupor and swat Elvis’ hand away.  However, it took another two minutes and forty-three seconds for her to beat him senseless with her bare, stumpy arms.

“Your poetry sucked!” she screamed as his mechanical body came apart all over the floor.  “Your flower was the ugliest pile of garbage I’ve ever seen —!”

“Well now, how rude,” muttered Archimedes.

“— But if you think I’m gonna stand here and let you treat me like that, you’ve got another thing coming, mister!”

And with a stern stomp of her foot, she snapped Elvis’ two metal hands off, and scooped them into her arms.

“You can keep your kinky robot love,” she spat, “And I’ll keep these.  To replace the ones you took from me!  See ya, loser!”

And though Elvis the automaton was largely rebuilt, he never recovered his hands, his pride or the love of his life.

Fig. 13: Thus giving birth to the phrase: “She left him a broken man.”

Yet he still touched her gently every night as she slept.

Fig. 14: Mwahahahaha...