back seat dyer

“Ahh, so you two are back already. How was Zoidberg again? How’s the folks?”

“Um, fine I guess,” Fisher the driver of the mini replied. “Who are you?”

“Tronesisia,” the gleaming silver robot lady responded. “New owner of the gas station. Old owner, or his son at least, told me all about you. From the future, eh? Don’t get a lot of those around here.”

“What happened to the old owner? Doggie, wasn’t it?”

“Doogie — the son. Tragic thing,” spoke Tronesisia solemnly. “Father passed away. Son decided to pull out the stake driven into his heart and move on. Took his marshmallow man with him. Now I’m all alone here, without help. Either of you need some dough? I have hours.”

“Not really,” replied Fisher. “No, we’re good,” mumbled Bendy at the same time.

“So fill her up?”

“Sure,” said Fisher. “And you probably already know, since you seem to know all about us, but it takes regular. Premium’s too rich for this old baby.”

“It is a pretty car.”

“Blue like your eyes.” Bendy then flirted, seeing an opening.

“You’re cute mister,” Tronesisia giggled, moving closer and pretend-pinching the fellow robot’s cheek. Bendy rubs it and grins.

“Gas, miss?” Fisher prompts, checking the sun.


20 minutes later, Tronesisia had sold them on the idea of staying overnight at Old Martha Ball’s available shack at the eastern edge of Sister. Furthest away from the town’s vampiric activity, she claimed. Safely tucked away in a small wood on the other side the tracks, she furthered.

Boy was she telling a whopper.

Tronesisia driving Bendy and (especially) Fisher over to their possible doom.

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