Automated Erotica: the Strippler

Automated Erotica

Two Stories From Sketch Undressed

by The Preve

Story One

The Strippler

based upon, and a continuation of, Mechanical Striptease

by Sketch Undressed.

The author wishes to extend his thanks to Sketch Undressed for his permission in writing this story.

James Waddington III. Everybody hated him.

His family hated him, but they were Waddingtons and hating each other was a family tradition.

His friends hated him but then, people in James' social class never really liked each other; appearances needed to be kept however.

His co-workers hated him, but he was the nephew of the CEO, and the Waddingtons owned the company, so not much to be done there.

Out of the numerous cliques, colleagues, and social circles whose dislike was a matter of course, one group's abhorrence towards James far exceeded the others: the workers and employees of

Assembly Plant #127,

of Waddington Widgets (corporate headquartered in Milwaukee, Wisconsin).

James was the classic example of the toxic, entitled manager everyone liked to bitch about on Reddit entitled people narratives.

From the day of his appointment as production manager, to the final day of his tenure, James Waddington The Third did not hesitate to lord his status as a Waddington over the peons, er, employees at every opportunity.

And why shouldn't he?

He was a Waddington: rich (well, his family was), young (thirty-five physically, eighteen mentally, in the worst way, sometimes five when he was on one of his frequent tantrums), handsome (well yes, but in a frat boyish way that repelled more than a few female prospects), and smart (in his own mind).

Certainly of better stock than these proles, in this shithouse of a factory in which his family saw fit to stick him.

His uncle assigned him two tasks: increase productivity from the workforce, and evaluate the newly installed

HNT/AI SK Model 69 Automated Assembly Line,

state of the art, and slated for installation in all the other factories, pending approval.

The assembly line, it was obvious, had some kinks to work out, as new state of the art industrial equipment always do.

Plus, several incidents caught on the security cameras, prior to James' appointment, brought a taint to the line's reputation.

Such as the two floor workers, Alicia Valdez and Lum Horton, caught fucking on the roller conveyor belt, shortly after the assembly line's installation.

Both were called into the office and fired the next day. The two were revealed to be mechanophiles, and admitted to ingesting a bit of jimsonweed, belladonna, and LSD prior to the coupling.

The spilled amount of bodily fluid, plus the aforementioned drugs, were only noticed after the line's activation, and mixed with the gears before any cleaning could be performed. It was decided to ignore the . . . uh, spillage. No sign of any real damage, no foul.

Security escorted Valdez and Horton out, or at least staggered them out: the drug combo came with extended hangovers for both.

Two days later, Tammy Getz, a packer, cut her hand on a roll of packaging paper; a real vicious paper cut. Some blood sprinkled on the conveyor belt rolls.

Tammy was by no means a virgin. She was known to supplement her minimum wage with some prostitution on the side.

Another coworker, Milton Ziegler, brought his pet newt to show to a colleague, and got into an argument with Billy Bunk, the factory bully. Bunk grabbed the newt and threw it into the assembly line. Night night newt.

Such an uncommon combo, when examined by certain parties later on, explained the subsequent misfortunes to befall James Waddington III, and if some person questioned the nature of the ingredients, the answer could be said not all such results require the blood of a virgin.

The incident report, regarding the stripping of James Waddington The Third by the model 69, was greatly aided by the remarkable details provided by one employee, who only wished to be identified as Sketch Undressed (for whatever reason the party chose this odd pseudonym remains a mystery as of this writing).

An accounting of the incident would be considered redundant, in light of the following events two weeks later. The second incident mirrored the first . . . with a slight difference.

Excerpt from the interview with Joe Donal, floor supervisor, Assembly Plant #127, Waddington Widgets Company, April 12 20. ., Brianna Lumley, HR director conducting.

Lumley:

"So tell me, how does the same thing happen to the same man twice?"

Donal:

"You tell me, Ma'am. The new safety features should've worked. The line was checked over, five times that day. Mr. Waddington insisted."

Lumley:

"Engineering and IT gave the 69 a clean bill. People are saying it's either sabotage or . . ."

Donal:

"Yeah, yeah, I know. I'm not going to lie. A lot of the floor had it in for him. That two week sabbatical he took after the last one didn't improve his attitude. He got worse. Best two weeks everyone had. I was going to submit a complaint form to HR. No one wants him there."

Lumley:

"Well, you got your wish. Corporate reassigned him. He threatened to quit . . . and sue. He got a raise and a promotion. It'll keep his mouth shut at least. Wouldn't look good to the Waddingtons if one of their own sued them. I'm just interested in whether one of the floor had something to do with the second incident."

Donal:

"Check the cameras. No one was near the guy when he slipped on the conveyor belt."

Lumley:

"Must've been a good show."

Donal:

"You kidding? Best show since the last time. He'd been pretty much on a tear the moment he walked in the door. Lots of cursing, sex harassment up the ass, n-words, c-words, s-words, and f-words. A few k-words too. Fucking Waddingtons. The whole floor was set to walk out that day. No one wants to work under that fucking cunt. Fucking Waddingtons, snort!"

Lumley:

"Yeah, the family tends to the racist, antisemitic, homophobic sort, but they have to grit their teeth and play by the rules outside the company. He's a Waddington, so inside the company he gets promoted and transferred instead of fired. Fucking Waddingtons."

(Given the record of corporate HR's since time immemorial, the fact of WW's HR being in full agreement with the floor staff indicates the level of toxicity exhibited by James Waddington III. One can only imagine what the other departments thought.)

Lumley:

"This incident report provided by 'Prevert One', who the heck calls himself Prevert One?"

Donal:

"I don't know. Some people say he's weird, creepy, and a perve, but he's accurate here. 'Sides, you guys yourselves said employees could use nicknames."

Lumley:

"Uh, right. So, anyway, the report states details not included in the previous incident."

Donal:

"Well, yeah. That's because of the new vacuum suction pumps and lubrication hoses installed since the last incident. Plus, the packing tape rolls we put in for the boxes."

Lumley:

"I see, and the difficulties you ran into trying to shut down the machine?"

Donal:

"We're still trying to figure that one out. It started pretty much like the last time. He slips. His clothes get caught in the gears. They get stripped off. He's stuck on the conveyor naked, and blasted with air and water from the hoses. Only it gets weirder than that."

Lumley:

"Go on."

Donal:

"Well, there's the packing tape the machine slapped across his mouth. The floor liked that actually. Shut him up for once. Then the other packing tape that bound his arms and legs to the conveyor. Then the oil hoses that drenched him in lube, head to toe. And finally, the suction pump that planted itself right on his . . . well, you read the report."

Lumley:

"Uh, yes I did. There was quite a bit of, um, bodily fluid we had to clean from the . . . 'ahem!' . . . tank."

Donal:

"We know. The hose was, um, transparent."

Lumley:

". . . Right . . . so back to the problem shutting down the machine . . ."

Donal:

"That's it. It wasn't that we couldn't, it's just the machine kept running, even after we pressed the kill switch. We disconnected it from the power source; ripped out the batteries. The damn thing kept going.

We tried getting to Mr. Waddington but the hoses kept blocking our way. It almost was like the 69 was trying to stop us getting to him. It was just plain crazy. It only stopped when we shut down the whole factory."

Lumley:

"How was James Waddington after?"

Donal:

"Not very good. He was pissed. Shouting, 'I have been violated!' cursing a blue one, accusing us of sabotage, attempted murder, the whole gamut. He also had a pretty big . . . well . . . Jimmy."

Lumley:

"Yeah, I guess that could be expected.

Especially after a twenty minute mechanical blowjob.

"

Donal:

"We tagged the machine for maintenance, kept it disconnected, and taped off the section. Nobody wants to go near it. The floor's given the machine a name, after the guy who designed the thing."

Lumley:

"Oh good grief! You mean Edward Lee Str . . .?"

Donal:

"Yep,

The Strippler.

"

Board Meeting, Waddington Widgets Headquarters, May 4, 20. .

Avery Waddington II, per family tradition, did not like his nephew, nor had any concern for him one way or the other. He shuffled him around the company as a favor to his brother, but the constant bullying of his subordinates was proving problematic.

Avery had long since tired of the complaints, from both HR and Accounting, of the constant expenses hiring and training new personnel, after his idiot nephew drove the old ones away.

Avery made it clear to his brother: the latest position was the last one . . . unless his brother paid extra for damages.

"Yeah, Jimmy's a useless fratboy shit," he thought, missing not the irony: he and his brother had their frat days,

But we grew out of it.

Still, his idiot nephew found a way to make himself useful, just not the way Avery expected.

"We can't just rip out the HNT/AI SK 69. It's millions of dollars invested. The contract with Strippler Tech stipulates huge penalties if we pull out," Rick Laiman, the CFO, warned.

"The company will not hold on to a machine that strips and fellates people, Rick," Avery growled. "Engineering and IT found nothing, but obviously some major fucking glitch is involved. Sabotage perhaps."

Chief Security Officer, Bob McGamble,

"Security questioned everyone. No one went near the machine in the previous two weeks. They all seem to think the 69, The Strippler they call it, is possessed."

"Possessed?"

"Uh huh, possessed."

"As in demons, devils, that

Exorcist

movie?"

"Yep."

Avery suddenly felt a headache. "Crackpot superstition from an employee or two I can handle. Not an entire factory."

"Well, there was that thing in Maine," the CSO mumbled.

"What did you say?" Avery asked.

"Uh, nothing. Right, so, we have an investigator, Wolfe Muldoon, on loan from the FBI. He went over the tapes, viewed the Valdez and Horton incident, talked to Tammy Getz, the paper cut victim, and Milton Ziegler, who apparently hasn't gotten over the loss of his pet newt. He suggests the 69 could be possessed by a 'ahem!' succubus."

"A . . . succubus. An FBI agent says a succubus is in my machine. An FBI agent."

"Well, he's from the Feds'

Extremely Odd Division,

" the CSO added.

"Right, one of those weirdos."

"He's suggesting we bring in a professional exorcist. I'm inclined to agree, not because I believe in it,

kind of, my cousin from Maine swears that thing was true,

but the employees need to know the company's doing something."

"Sigh! Okay, give this to HR. Just make sure she finds someone 'credible'."

Unfortunately for James Waddington, HR decided to go really cheap.

The Vatican, Office of Special Inquisitions and Exorcisms.

Cardinal Guglielmo Pietro was in his office, quietly sipping his Chateau D'Ambroise when Father Patrick Blatty stepped into the room, worry etched on his face.

"Boss, we got a donnybrook brewing in America," he said with his Gaelic lilt.

"Go on," the Cardinal tersed in thick Italian.

Always something with these Americans.

"Bishop Niederman, you know him, Wisconsin. He was contacted by Father Masterton, oversees the Milwaukee church. Well one of his parishioners, works for Waddington Widgets, got it into her head that one of their newly installed machines got possessed."

"Sigh! Another local American woman watching too many late night psychics. Why should we be troubled by this?"

"Father Masterton was skeptical as well, according to the Bishop, but he was concerned because the woman mentioned the company brought in an exorcist. Someone the employee was highly dubious about, Darren Kolchaksky."

"Cristo!" Cardinal Pietro crossed himself, and not because of the profanity. "That defrocked stronzo (and don't mention the altar boys)?! He'll fuck it up! Bad enough we had to deal with that mess in Maine, now we have that fake charlatan running loose. Get a flight immediately! Take a squad! He's already summoned something with his idiocy probably, so you're going to have to clean it up. I'll make a report to the Big Fella."

"Yes, your Eminence."

****

The general opinion among observers, regarding the events which occurred on May 10, 20. ., was the whole affair could have been avoided had Waddington Widgets, one: bothered to conduct a thorough vetting of "Professional Demon and Ghost Interdiction expert," Darren Kolchaksky, and two: bothered to pony up the money to hire someone better, (or at least found a proper priest).

Kolchaksky, who carried a vague resemblance to Father Guido Sarducci, arrived at the factory, at 9am, carrying a variety of instruments.

Including: one gallon of holy water (which, as it turned out, wasn't holy, and barely even water, considering the amount of concentrated belladonna, LSD, and THC found in the sample. It was later determined Darren had accidentally switched his bong water with the holy), one bell, one book (

Exorcism For Dummies

), and one candle.

The factory floor was cleared. Some were tempted to linger, curious about the proceedings, but Security said no.

Darren set down his instruments, took a hit of peyote, also laced with LSD, and belladonna, and began his, what he thought passed for, ritual.

It did not end well for him (nor for that guy in Maine it was said, but experts argue who got it worse).

Witnesses interviewed later, admitted while unable to see into the factory, they did hear some chanting, before the sounds changed, and

The Event

occurred.

"Most of it sounded like some

Miskatonic U

frat hazing ritual," said one, whose annoying but successful older brother attended the university.

"And then it stopped," said another, "and there were these grinding noises, like metal on metal, or concrete, or something really hard."

"And then the guy screamed, man, really, really high pitched, like, I mean, like five octaves past Robert Plant," added a rocking worker.

"And we heard these ripping and tearing noises, and moans and grunts, and the guy's ooing and aahing and going 'Oh! Don't stop!' and 'Not there! Not there!' and then we heard these thumps and The Strippler walked out . . . at least it kind of looked like The Strippler," said the little brother.

The employees of Waddington Widgets Assembly Plant #127 were treated to the sight of, according to the various testimonies, a very spider configured HNT/AI SK69 Automated Assembly Line (aka The Strippler) walking out of the aforementioned plant.

The reactions were what one would expect, upon seeing a giant metallic spider ("Like fucking Jon Peters, man!" the rocker.), roller conveyor belt lolling out of its maw like a drooling perve at a strip show, oil and water hoses waving about it like tentacles.

Most employees and security scattered to the four corners of the complex, leaving trails of shrieks (and the yellow and brown stuff that usually goes into toilets, in some cases).

Others stood and watched, stupefied with horror. A couple of security took out their weapons to shoot the metallic bullet-ricocheting menace, but stopped on seeing the, "Are you out of your fucking minds, genius," glares from their colleagues.

It quickly became apparent The Strippler had no interest in the witnesses, trundling past the viewers, as if in search of something . . . or someone.

As a side note, Darren Kolchaksky did, in fact, come through the experience intact . . . mostly.

There was the problem of getting his body from the ceiling, where he'd been glued by the packing tape.

Removing the packing tape (extremely painful for the hirsute Kolchaksky, but akin to a free bikini wax . . . including Brazilian).

Finally, the removal of the bell, book, and candle from his . . . ahem! (the first responders, and doctors, were stunned those items could actually fit, but if they'd chanced to interview a certain, well-endowed bishop in Peoria, who'd "mentored" Kolchaksky in his seminarian days, he'd say they were being conservative in their measurements)

The subsequent fate of James Waddington III was a direct consequence of the botched exorcism (which, in hindsight, was more an equivalent of giving the demon an infernal version of

Five-Hour Energy Extra Strength

drink,

Red Bull,

and methamphetamine. Ask the guy in Maine).

****

Chelsea Rice, supervising engineer at Wadding Widgets' new IT and maintenance department, stared blankly at the condescending shit of a new manager, which corporate decided to inflict upon her person.

"What the fuck did I do to deserve this prick?" she asked herself.

She'd done great at her job. The higher ups said so; certainly the promotions she'd earned testified to their confidence in her performance.

The management position waited on a silver platter. Instead they gave it to,

James Fucking Nepo-Placement Waddington The Turd.

Who, at the moment, was presently berating his privileged

Skull and Bones,

old moneyed nose at her black body, for daring to make a minor inquiry as to his computer programming skills.

"Are you saying I can't handle a simple laptop? Hmm? Someone like you presumes to tell me I can't tap some keys to get a computer to do something? I don't see your degree, lady. I think I'll talk to HR. See if you lied on your resume, 'sniff!'"

James didn't call her the n-word in his dressing down, but the implication sat on his sneering face.

Chelsea, whose hands were clasped so tight behind her back, her nails drew blood, decided then and there to put in her two weeks. Bad enough the company denied her MIT graduated ass the promotion she deserved, but to give it to this . . . thing, was beyond comprehension.

A quick glance at the rest of the staff, who James had already, individually and collectively, alienated, promised a mass walkout in the future.

This one's going to be a good story for Reddit.