After discovering that throwing a brick at a Range Rover window was a very effective way of gaining access, we recently repeated the process. This time, we targeted a BOFmobile that was parked outside Toys R' Us. We figured that the BOF inside would be so confused by all the bright and fluffy things in the shop that we'd have plenty of time to grab some evidence that we could take back to Penderyn Towers to analyse.
It took a few shots (I think the old lady with the Zimmer frame will recover just fine. I was more of a runner at school) but eventually we got rid of the rear window. Coyote reached inside, grabbed what he could and we legged it. The BOF didn't appear at all; he's probably still there telling some poor, unsuspecting Furby all about his love of vintage cars.
When we got back we realised that Coyote had managed to get hold of some blueprints. A cold chill ran down our spines as we turned the plans this way and that...so I turned the heating up a notch.
It was nigh-on impossible to understand what the blueprints were for. The handwriting was atrocious; it looked like a drunk spider had wandered across the pages in search of a fly kebab. A lot of the plans were obscured by bacon grease too, so it was incredibly difficult to fathom just what the BOFs were intending to create. However, we did manage to suss out a few bits and pieces; so we popped down to the local hardware store and bought some nuts and bolts, a floorboard saw and a really big hammer.
Several hours passed. Sweat beaded on our furrowed brows as we worked through the night; our fingers sore and our hearts pounding. Then we stopped playing Hungry Hippos set about building whatever was on the blueprints.
A crate of Stella later and we stepped back to survey the creation. It was terrifying. More terrifying, in fact, than getting stuck in a lift with Anne Robinson...
It was a CYBERBOF. We were standing inches away from a robotic (or 'robofic' if you will) representation of a BOF. We stared into its cold, black eyes and shuddered. Should we switch it on...?
Of course we bloody well should.
It creaked into life and its eyes lit up like fog lights on a clear day. We slowly paced backwards, Coyote brandishing a baseball bat while I held a chicken and mushroom slice. I was peckish. Its mouth opened and a monotone, soulless voice filled the room:
"Marvellous to meet you. Have I told you about my home county?"
We both screamed. Coyote smashed it across the head with his baseball bat, but it wouldn't be stopped.
"Bacon is splendid," the CyberBOF continued; advancing towards us in its Chelsea boots (not pictured.)
There was only one thing we could do to avoid being eliminated. I cleared my throat, squaring up to its cold frame. I glared at it, took a deep breath and said: "Have you tried vegetarian bacon?"
The CyberBOF stopped in its tracks. The cup of boffee fell out of its hand onto the floor and smoke began to emit from every orifice (every orifice. It was quite spectacular.) "Does...not...compute..." The voice sounded strangled; as if it was choking on a piece of its favourite cake.
Then it exploded. We found its head in the garden:
We now keep pens and odd screws in it.
So don't be surprised if you see a CyberBOF; but don't be afraid. They're easy to disarm with a simple sentence - one that will confuse them into shutdown. We suggest one of these:
- "Chelsea boots are so last season."
- "I earn more money than you."
- "My Range Rover doesn't have tinted windows."
- "Your home county is a shit-hole."
- "Would you like a hug?"
- "I got a tie like that from M&S!"
- "I accidentally shredded your script."
- "Rachmaninov is overrated."
- "Bacon cake."
Coyote and Roadrunner: Always one step ahead.