Honey, I’m Sorry I Didn’t Call Before My Arm Was Replaced With a Laser-Guided Proton Ray

Man With Robotic Arm

I’m sorry, honey. I screwed up. I should have told you I would be home late. I should have told you I was going drinking with the guys. Most of all, I should have told you I was having my arm replaced with a laser-guided proton ray.

That’s on me.

Please know that when the night started it wasn’t my intention to have my arm replaced with a laser-guided proton ray. I was just supposed to get a quick beer with Tom and Mitch after work. When they left I was about to call you and say that I was on my way home, except I was suddenly approached by an eight-foot cyborg who goes by the name Dr. Cassius Foxtrot. After agreeing not to tell anyone where I was going (which I do regret), Dr. Foxtrot and I went to his secret underground laboratory where he/it replaced my arm with a laser-guided proton ray.

This will change our relationship, sure, but not necessarily in a bad way. We can still go apple picking. We can still go to that B & B upstate you like. We can still hold hands and walk around the lake. You’ll just have to hold my left hand, because where my right hand was there’s now an atomic chamber that fuels a laser-guided proton ray. Don’t worry, it’s encased in several layers of lead to ensure there’s no radiation exposure from the unstable isotope. You know, for my laser-guided proton ray.

At this point I also need to apologize for accidentally disintegrating the cat. As you can imagine, getting the hang of using your arm where there’s now a laser-guided proton ray takes some getting used to. I was sitting at the breakfast nook, noshing on some pita chips when he jumped on the table and surprised me. I’m really going to miss Mr. Furley.

You have every right to be angry, but this shouldn’t come as a complete surprise. You know I’ve always dreamed of becoming bionic. Let’s face it, we would never be able to afford to replace my arm with a proton ray. Maybe in thirty years I could have gotten a finger turned into a small reciprocating saw – maybe. That’s assuming that by then bionic limbs become a common medical procedure and are at least partially covered by Medicare Part B. If Dr. Cassius Foxtrot had never agreed to perform the operation in return for joining his galactic army it would have never happened.

I guess I should talk to you about fighting in Dr. Foxtrot’s galactic army.

Let me back up – there’s a war unfolding on Pluto driven by the evil Hannibal Highridge, who’s trying to steal – what else – the only known supply of germanium 6 from the dwarf planet’s core. I know, the media is deliberately keeping it out of the news. Anyway, Dr. Foxtrot was instructed by the Majestic Commission to put together a specialized force that makes sure the germanium 6 doesn’t fall into the wrong hands. Not sure why he selected me, Theo from Westchester who sells renter’s insurance, but duty calls. After we train for the next month at the North Pole (don’t worry, I was able to get a leave of absence from work), we’ll be teleported to Pluto to stop Highridge.

Everyone on the team seems really nice. There’s one guy who can shoot bullets from his eye. He’s really chill; I think your sister would like him. Maybe we can double date if you ever want to see me again.



Matt Morea

Author: Matt Morea

Matt’s plays and sketches have been performed across the United States. He currently writes for the Magnet Theater house sketch team Danger Noodle in New York City. His work has also appeared in McSweeney’s. His Twitter handle is @moreamatt.

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