Dm: so you can take the princess back to the castle to marry a man and collect your reward or you can release her and let her run away with her girlfriend, but you won’t get any money
Player #1: I really like money but I also really like lesbians
Player #2: what do you value more, money or the gays
(They ended up escorting the princess and her gf to the country border bc our dragonborn barbarian scooped them up like babies and wouldn’t put them down until her ‘gay children’ were safe from ‘the evil heterosexuals’)
a robot may not talk about Fight Club or, through inaction, allow Fight Club to be talked about
I’m in love with the concept of this poor robot in a tux at a nice dinner party automatically punching out anyone who talks about David Fincher movies and then having to deal with the resulting scandal and embarrassment
Le Puivert is an uncomfortably upscale destination for a first date. You can’t pronounce half the items on the menu, and in the back of your mind, you worry that your date wants you to feel like you owe him something for bringing you here. Still, if he is that kind of guy, you don’t feel too bad about eating on his dime.
The staff are androids – real androids, the kind that almost look human. The usual Le Puivert clientele probably doesn’t want working class people anywhere near their food, you think bitterly. At least your waiter does not judge you for butchering the French dish names.
The appetizers are better than the conversation. Your date asks you about your interests, but his eyes glaze over whenever you open your mouth and you suspect he’s just waiting for his chance to speak. “You like old-timey science fiction?” he asks, sounding a little amused.
“Some of it.” Much of it is passé
now, but there’s something charming about what people thought the present might look like when it was still the future.
“Me too, but I like the serious stuff. Ever heard of Kurt Vonnegut?”
You nod. “I’ve read all his full-length novels and most of his short stories. I liked most of his stuff, but Welcome to the Monkey House kind of ruined him for me.”
His face shows no sign of recognition, and you’re kind of relieved – if he had defended the story, you would have walked out, and then you’d never get to find out what the hell fouace is.He then asks you if you’ve ever heard of Chuck Palahnuik, and seems convinced that the reason you didn’t like Fight Club is because you didn’t understand the complexity of the narrative.
You are poking dispassionately at your last fig tartine when the waiter returns with your entree. You’re so distracted by his pencil-thin mustache (so tiny! so unnecessary!) that you almost don’t notice when his eyes suddenly flash red and fix upon your date. The next few moments are a blur. When your brain catches up, your date is on the floor, struggling futilely against the waiter’s chokehold.
“The First Law of Robotics,” says the android with inhuman calmness, as your date kicks and claws at its arm, “Is that a robot may not talk about Fight Club or, through inaction, allow Fight Club to be talked about.”
Your meal is delivered to you free of charge, and you eat alone, filled with a sudden affection towards all robotkind.
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