“No, I am that thing. I am what you monkeys call an artificial intelligence.”

I cocked my head and examined it skeptically. “You look like a chrome-plated beer can." That was a completely accurate description. The cylinder even tapered slightly at the top, and was ringed by a ridge. "You’re really an AI?"

"Yup. You should refer to me as The Lord God Almighty.”

“That position is already filled. I think I’ll call you Skippy.”

“Don’t call me that, it sounds disrespectful, monkey.”

“You prefer shithead? Because that’s the other option, Skippy-O.” I kept glancing around, fearing the Ruhar would hear me.

“Can we compromise on The Great and Powerful Oz?” It asked.

“I’m not a flying monkey, so that’s a no, Skippy.”

“Unacceptable.”

“How about we go for something more formal, like Skippy McSkippster?”

“No.”

“Skippy Skipperson? Skippy Skippkowski? Skippy Von Skipping? Or maybe Sir Skippy Skippton-Skippersworth?”

“No, no, no and NO!”

“I can go on like this all day.”

“I believe you could.”

Silence.

“You going to talk, Skippy?” AI? Bullshit. Someone was playing a joke on me.

“I’m mad at you.”

“Hey, don’t go away mad, just go away, whoever you are. You’re not an AI, you’re a fancy talking beer can.”

“I told you, I’m an artificial intelligence, as you understand the concept. Which isn’t saying much. Hey, Colonel Joe, I composed a poem in your honor. Do you want to hear it?”

“N-“

“There once was a caveman from Maine, whose dick was so small, he rubbed it in va-“

“Hey! You shut up in there! Goddamn, I’m going to glue claymores on your lid and compress you into a marble, if you want to talk about something small.”

“A claymore? Hahahahhaha!” For a moment, I thought Skippy had lost it, his laugh was bordering on the maniacal. “Oh, that’s a good one, I haven’t had a laugh like that since before your species lost their tails. Do you mean claymore as in the antipersonnel mine, or the traditional Scottish wooden club? Because either one would be equally ineffective against me. Joey my boy, I’m made from a mix of exotic particles that your little caveman pea-brain can’t even imagine. Most of my memory and processing power isn’t even in this local spacetime. You could hit me with a nuke, and it wouldn’t even scuff my wonderfully shiny exterior. Allow me to demonstrate,” he said, and expanded to the size of an oil drum, then shrank to a lipstick tube, then back to a beer can. “That was me changing my footprint in local spacetime.”

I shook my head in amazement. “I have to admit, this caveman is impressed, oh great and powerful Ozzy. Why are you usually the size of a beer can?”