Seymour Little figured out what was wrong. He was over stimulated. Slowly, yet surely, his mind was being systematically blown apart. His sight grew wonky, inundated with oncoming flashes of brilliant light, best described psychedelic, pulsating like a cartoon migraine headache. He tried to scream. He could not. If there was a top ten list for best ways to die, suffocation might and should be on it.
Cleo Patrick, an eccentric heiress for obvious reasons, sighed as she said, “Lights on.” She slowly dismounted her sweaty naked body from Seymour’s lifeless glistening face. Upon closer inspection, Seymour’s eyes sparked electricity, similar to static cling, which prompted her to say, while pressing her index finger against her right ear, “Hey Google®, nearest sex robot repair.”