A Macabre Myth of a Moth-Man

"   It’s… a machine…

   A bloody machine…

   My eyes aren’t lying… it’s actually a bloody robot… a ticking robot…

   About seven feet tall, its upper torso is a solid orb of grey and black metal, attached to its tiny round abdomen by a polished silver ‘spine’.  Its arms end in machete-like digits that scrape against each other like scissors, providing it with a set of claws that bury my own in shame.  He’s literally ripping through metal and plastic like a katana through butter.

   It’s either not seen me or is ignoring me.

   I keep my right arm, with its stiffened hairs and uncontrollable shakiness, concealed behind me.  I’m English, so I’d best do this politely and at least introduce myself first.

   ‘Excuse me,’ I say loudly.

   It doesn’t acknowledge, finishing off the filing cabinet it’s working on.

   ‘Ahem… excuse me,’ I say louder.

   The ticking ‘heart’ noise slows and the machine stops what it’s doing, turning around to face me with a whir of mechanisms.

   Its head is about four-fifths of the way up its body and is shaped somewhere between a skull and a breathing mask, with wide, vacant yellow lenses for eyes and pipes coming from the grilled ‘teeth’ around to the base of the ‘neck’.

   Why did I come down here again…?

   ‘Evening,’ I manage to squeak after a three-second pause, ‘Sorry to intrude like this, you’re obviously working on something.  See, I’m just from the room upstairs… and, urm, I was just wondering if you might, you know, keep it down… I’ve got quite a lot to get through…’

   The machine just stares back vacantly.  Who am I trying to impress?  It isn’t going to laugh.

   ‘You… well, seem angry about something.  Can you talk?’ I ask, ‘Do you want to explain what happened?’

   I look at the ‘torso’ just below the head and the engraved letters across it.

   C.R.A.B- I?  What the hell is a C.R.A.B- I?

   Tick-tick… Tick-tick… Tick-tick… Tick-tick…

   The machine turns its back on me; obviously deciding I’m of little priority to it as it pulls apart another computer with one hand.

   ‘Listen… um… ‘CRAB’…’ I say to it, ‘I’m not up for this bollocks right now.  I’ve got a lot of work to do and you’re making it a bagful more… confusing.  Now, either you can tell me… or, you know, use sign language or something… what the hell you’re all about or I can de-commission you and find out myself,’