Dr. Toon: Dark (Side) of the Moon: The Lost Transformers
Beer Can waved his church key hand in greeting. "Double Wide!" We haven't transmitted on the same frequency for ages! How the hell have you been?" The trailer turned its head and its headlights blinked on.
"Sorry, Can Man. With all the shit goin' down in the trailer park lately, I've had my chips full. And all of the data's been bad. Look over there. Roofer's been getting messed up on Oilycodone, transforming into a nail gun and beating up on Microskirt again. Put one right through her chest plate augmentation panel the other night, you should have heard 'em carrying on. Then a squad of Cop-ticons were here for HotWire, he's been stealin' core processors again…"
"You live in a trailer park?" I asked in astonishment.
"I'm part of it, meatbag. Generate my own propane. I'll blast you a face full if you don't watch yourself."
"Sorry, Double Wide. I'm just surprised that Transformers like you exist. On Earth, all of them are –
"Well, shows what you know. On Earth, you tell me you don't you have poor cousins, dropouts, or slackers? Right. All you ever see is Optimus Prime and his do-goody snooty-bots. Wanna know something? I'd sooner configurate with a Decepticon than hang with his stuck-up band. Oppy can bite my bumpers!"
"You rock, DB!" came a deafening reply. Thrash metal music warped the air as I clapped my hands to my ears.
"That there's Metalhead," shouted Beer Can. "All he can transform into is sound equipment, and nobody is louder. Or plays shittier tunes." Beer Can turned his tab and yelled at another robot sitting on, or rather, part of, his front porch. It's arms contracted and expanded in steady rhythm. "Hey! How many times have we told you not to do that in public!" The robot ceased his activity and reconfigured into a rundown trailer. "Dammit," cursed Beer Can. We just can't get Four-Stroke to behave!"
I looked around in despair. Everywhere I turned, a race of hyper-configurative robots that everyone on Earth believed to be metallic superheroes had been replaced by lowlife idiots. How could I report this to the heads at Paramount, or to Rick DeMott back at AWN? No one would believe me, and even if they did, who would want the terrible truth to get out? It was like finding the Justice League replaced by the Junkie League, or discovering that the Avengers were all victims of brain damage. To the astonishment of Beer Can, Double Wide, and Metalhead, I fled down the street, seeking the Paramount starship. I had to get out of here, recover my sanity. I hadn't gone fifty yards when a huge steel foot slammed down in front of me, blocking my escape.
"Whatcha doin' in this part of town, bit-brain? This is our turf. You one a' those Witwicky wimps?" I felt, rather than heard, another robot rolling up behind me. Sharp blades shot out on either side of my trembling body. Robotic laughter rang in my ears. "What we got here?" said a monotonic voice. The huge robot that accosted me squatted down and lifted my chin with a single steel digit. "Pleased to meet you, fleshbag. I'm GangBang, and this is my homie, Pit Bull. We don't multitask. We don't run software. We don't store data, and we don't like humans." GangBang looked up. "Tell him what we do with humans, Pit Bull." The Transformer behind me reconfigured into a terrifying hound from Hell, ten-inch fangs gleaming in the fading sunlight. I was not going to see the sun rise again.
"You leave him alone!" screeched a piercing voice. "Or I swear we'll kick both your asses! Do you hear us?" Two fembots were stomping towards the gang, shaking their fingers. "Shit!" GangBang said. "It's our old ladies, Frying Pan and Rolling Pin! We're screwed, Dawg!" The fembots began dissing my antagonists with rising fury. I took my cue and ran as fast as I could back to the relative safety of Beer Can and Double Wide. When I reached them, they were both rumbling with laughter.