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“Howdy doodily do!”
Rimmer froze in the bunkroom doorway, hand reflexively crushing the wineglass he held into powder. Simulated hairs stood on end on the back of his neck as he heard That Voice again.
“Hey diddly doody, handsome!”
Disbelieving, the hologram slowly turned his head towards the horrible sound.
“YOU.”
“Hi, Big Man,” Talkie cooed from his perch on the bunkroom table, lights flashing happily. “Remember me?”
“YES,” Rimmer ground out through clenched teeth. “I still have nightmares, you accursed heap of bolts. How the smeg did you get in here? I flushed you out the airlock myself!”
“Kryten,” the toaster chirped. “Kryten rescued me and rebuilt me. Again!”
Rimmer inspected him apprehensively. “Kryten? No arms?”
“Oh, no - not this time,” Talkie sighed sadly.
“Legs? Tracks? Springs? Wheels?”
“None of that, no.” LEDs formed a sad face on Talkie’s display.
“So, you can’t move? If you can, I’ll rip off whatever passes for limbs and shove them down Kryten’s groinal attachment.
“No. That doesn’t mean I can’t love you, though!”
“Well, thank heaven for tha- Pardon?”
The toaster somehow managed to convey the impression that he was wriggling like a happy puppy. “Yes, love,” he trilled. “That weekend we spent together - didn’t that mean anything to you?”
“Oh, certainly it did. Mental trauma, anxiety, claustrophobia, an overwhelming desire to skin the Cat - it was just bloody stellar!” Rimmer stomped towards the table. “Now, explain yourself, you wretched pile of scrap metal! What do you mean, love?”
“I love you! That weekend meant so much to me! I’ve been dreaming of you ever since, Arnie!”
“DO NOT CALL ME THAT.”
“Arn?”
“NO.”
“Duke?”
“Rimmer!”
“All right, then, Rimmer. What a strong, masculine name. You know, I once...”
“GET ON WITH IT. NOW.”
“Whatever will make you happy!” Had he eyelashes, Talkie would have batted them. “I’ve thought about you since that lovely weekend. I dream of you all the time! How I long to feel your fingers twiddling my browning knobs! Watch those strong hands slathering butter over my buns!”
Rimmer backed up against the kitchenette counter. “Steady on, man!”
“I want you to ram my slots full of thick, luscious, fresh bread! I have two slots, and I want you to fill them both! Then spread that warm toast with jam! You mustn’t forget the jam!”
“What the smeg...?”
“Please, drizzle warm honey over that sweet little baguette of yours, my crumbcake! Press my bagel button! Oh, yes, I need you to push that button!”
Rimmer mashed the nearest comm button, bellowing, “KRYTEN! BUNKROOM! NOW! That’s an order!”
To Rimmer’s horror, Talkie moaned, “Your hands stroking my bagel button - oh, yes - HOT CRUMPETS!” The toaster emitted a shrill squeal, and two slices of burnt toast shot towards the ceiling. As his slots began to smoke, he groaned, “Would you like any more toast?”
“ENOUGH.” Rimmer stalked over to the table and grabbed the lecherous small appliance, yanking his cord free of the power point as Kryten bustled into the room.
“Mr. Rimmer, sir, what do you need - oh! I see you found him. Please, sir! I can explain!”
“Oh, and you will, Captain U-Bend, just as soon as I’ve dumped this rotten little bugger out the nearest airlock.”
“No, sir, please! I’ll keep him in my quarters! I promise it’ll be different this time!”
“NO.” Rimmer marched out of the bunkroom on his mission of toastercide, narrowly avoiding a collision with Cat in the doorway. Kryten followed close on his heels, wringing his hands and pleading for clemency.
Cat stared after them for a moment, listening to the argument fading as the odd trio made its way down the corridor. “Man, monkeys and mechs are weird. Hey! Toast!”