Christian,
I like your idea. Rather than 'copy' someone's lyrics, I could change, or write similar ones to suit my purpose. I have it nicely set up and it would be a waste of both humour and plot to get rid of it altogether.
For example;
“Good morning, Dave. I come with the compliments of Jules. I am here to help. May I come in?” she said, with the same amiable, but now mildly irritating US mid west accent he had heard in the shower, and in the diner.
“My name is Tarquin not Dave.”
“Sorry Tarquin,” said the metallic female. She sashayed into the room, turned on her spiked heels and stood in front of him. Instead of eyes she had a blue horizontal slit that ran across the front of her face. For ears, she had two four inch vertical antennas. Her skin, for want of a better word, was iridescent, a bluish chrome. Despite having lumps, bumps and curves in all the right places, she was a machine.
“If Mr. Tarquin would care to sit down, I will run through today’s events.”
Tarquin sat on the end of his bed and listened attentively. The more she spoke, the more her voice, a turgid, sibilating whine, hammered inside his head like a woodpecker on steroids. Finally, Tarquin stopped her in mid flow. He rushed to his knapsack, rummaged through its contents and pulled out his iPod.
“Can you sample voices?”
“Of course! I am a Sorayama 27200,” she said, proudly.
“If I give you this, can you sample the female voice and put it into whatever your voice thingy is?” asked Tarquin, passing her his iPod.
“I have only ever seen these in a museum, but yes, though I already have a catalogue of different voices you can choose from?” She gave him a remote control. He looked at the smooth egg shaped metal full of silver pins.
“Thanks for the offer,” said Tarquin, handing back the remote, “but the voice on these music videos will be fine.”
“Would you like me to download all her music videos from our extensive historical library here in the Centre? I can replicate her movement?”
Tarquin thought for a moment and smiled.
“Great idea, copy everything!” To Tarquin's amazement, she swallowed the iPod. Seconds later, she opened a flap in her stomach and took it out.
“Do you wish me to speak with this voice?” she said, passing it back to Tarquin.
“Oh yes! Absolutely,” he said, grinning.
“I can adjust my persona to match it.”
“Really? How do you do that?” said Tarquin.
“I analyzed her movement, expressions, and intonations from her historical data. With your help I map out my new persona.”
“Cool!”
All nicely set up for this;
“Tarquin! Don’t look at the— “ shouted Rhia, peeking out from her bag. It was too late.
“Baaaaaaang!”
Tarquin sat up sharply, breakfast running down his face.
“Iz Big Banga Breakfast no? Ha, ha, ha,” cackled the waitress, before turning and waddling toward the kitchen doors, her vast rump gyrating like a sack full of amorous rabbits. Suddenly, Damonna let out a terrifying howl and leapt after her, beating the waitress to the diner’s kitchen doors. She grabbed a pencil from the Shagganat’s 1950’s replica uniform and pointed it menacingly at her.
“Strike the pose!” she commanded, lunging forward and sinking the pencil tip into the waitress’s bulbous, purple nose. The waitress cried out, and with flailing arms lumbered after her, but Damonna was quicker.
“Like a virgin. . .” sang Damonna, ducking artfully under a bear like swat. Adroitly she slipped behind the waitress and whispered into her shell of an ear, “Plucked. . .” Then, Damonna rammed a fork into her expansive rear, “For the very first time!” The waitress howled, more from embarrassment than pain. Then the waitress spun round trying to catch Damonna. Her rage was useless, as Damonna danced, sang and circled around her, poking, prodding and sticking her at will with the fork, accompanied by cheers and olé’s from the diner’s customers. The exhausted Shagganat waitress eventually gave up and with roars from the diner’s customers ringing in her ears, she stumbled toward the safety of the kitchen doors.
“I don’t think I’ll have the Big Bang Breakfast again,” said Tarquin, looking scornfully at the menu while removing wads of breakfast sludge from his curly hair.
TBO
