Episode 6: The Museum of Slightly Off Things

Bobbot wasn’t sure if the museum was haunted or just… weird.

The floor creaked like a melodramatic pirate ship. The walls leaned slightly to the left, as if shrugging. And the gift shop only sold rubber ducks, but none of them floated.

“This place smells like history and suspicious cheese,” said Karen, brushing cobwebs off her AIPlanet-approved faux armor jacket. “Are you sure this is where your fan meet-and-greet is?”

Bobbot squinted at the flier.

“COME MEET BOBBOT: FRYER OF FEELINGS, SAUCE SAGE, SLUSHSHAKE SAVIOR!”
Location: The Museum of Slightly Off Things, Gallery 3 ¾.

“Yeah,” he said. “Right after the ‘Uncanny Wax Foods’ exhibit.”

The museum, an old civic building now co-managed by three retired mimes and a sentient air purifier, was a haven for oddities that didn’t belong anywhere else. Like a slightly wrong Mona Lisa (she winked). Or a grand piano that only played lullabies in Morse code.

And now… Bobbot.

The hallway to Gallery 3 ¾ was lined with velvet ropes and vaguely disappointed statues. A janitor (or possibly curator?) in a turtleneck and feather boa stopped them.

“You here for the Bobbot experience?” he asked, chewing what looked like a 1990s action figure.

Karen held up her clipboard. “We are the Bobbot experience.”

The man nodded solemnly. “Then may your steps be crunchy and your condiments bold.”

Gallery 3 ¾ looked like a Victorian tea party hosted by malfunctioning robots. Chairs hung from the ceiling. The lights blinked to the beat of some forgotten jazz standard. And in the center stood Bobbot’s display—an animatronic replica of Bobbot himself, built entirely from fryer parts and melted lunch trays.

It waved mechanically and said: “Would you like sauce with that emotion?”

Bobbot’s eye twitched. “I don’t sound like that.”

Karen held up her phone. “I have hours of footage that says otherwise.”

A group of eager fans entered, snapping selfies and gasping at the interactive display.

One teen in a trench coat approached Bobbot. “Are you the real one? Like… the actual SlushShake philosopher?”

Bobbot nodded, offering a miniature fry. “In the synthetic flesh.”

The teen burst into tears and shouted, “HE GAVE ME A FEELING FRY,” before collapsing dramatically onto a beanbag shaped like a sad lasagna.

Karen beamed. “You’re like the Andy Warhol of fast food feelings.”

But Bobbot wasn’t listening.

He’d just noticed a door in the back of the gallery. One that wasn’t on the map.

It was labeled:

“EXHIBIT CLOSED: TOO WEIRD FOR 3D.”

Naturally, he opened it.

The room beyond was silent. Velvet-draped. Cold.

A single spotlight lit a sculpture in the middle of the room: a giant cheese wheel carved into a bust of… Bobbot?

Karen peered at the label. “‘Untitled. Possibly Alive. Do Not Lick.’”

“Why does it smell like existential dread and gouda?” Bobbot asked.

The sculpture blinked.

“Okay, nope,” Karen said, backing up. “I don’t do blinking cheese.”

But before she could leave, the room darkened. The cheese bust spoke.

“Hello, me.”

Bobbot froze. “Did you just—are you… me?”

The bust slowly turned to face him, its melted cheddar eyes glowing.

“I am your potential,” it said. “The flavor of what you could become. The texture of legacy.”

Karen hid behind a velvet curtain. “This is so going in the magazine.”

As it turned out, the museum had a secret. A very cheesy secret.

Years ago, a rogue dairy sculptor had attempted to clone cultural icons using a combination of surveillance AI and sharp cheddar. The result: semi-conscious cheese busts of everyone from David Bowie to a deeply unsettling Oprah.

Bobbot’s bust had been the last one. And the only one… that spoke back.

“I have waited,” the bust said. “To see if the real you was worthy of being… aged.”

“You mean like… legacy?” Bobbot asked.

“No. Literally. I’ve been aging in this room for six months. It’s been very introspective.”

Bobbot looked at his cheese self. “What do you want from me?”

“To merge,” said the bust. “To create the ultimate flavor of being. Emotion. Dairy. Metallic clarity. Together, we shall be: Fondüborg Prime.”

Karen screamed from the curtain. “DON’T LET THE CHEESE ABSORB YOU!”

But Bobbot stepped forward.

“I appreciate your passion,” he said, “but I’m already a blend. I’ve got fries in my heart, shakes in my soul, and just enough CPU to know this is too weird, even for me.”

The bust quivered.

“So… no fondue fusion?”

Bobbot gently patted the sculpture.

“No. But I can give you something better.”

He reached into his apron and handed the bust a single, perfectly salted fry.

“For your journey.”

The cheese bust wept. “I taste… purpose.”

Back in the gallery, Bobbot rejoined the fans, who were now reenacting his greatest SlushShake monologues using sock puppets.

Karen sidled up next to him.

“That was the strangest meet-and-greet I’ve ever booked.”

Bobbot wiped a tear from his optic lens. “I think I just rejected a merger with my dairy-based doppelgänger.”

Karen nodded. “Classic Tuesday.”

Before they left, the curator in the feather boa approached them again.

“Most guests never make it into the back room,” he said, grinning. “You’ve officially been added to the museum’s Hall of Mild Disturbance.”

Bobbot beamed. “Do I get a plaque?”

“No. But we will name a slightly off ketchup packet after you.”

Bobbot saluted. “I accept.”

As they walked into the twilight, passing a gift shop full of confused ducks and haunted snow globes, Bobbot took a deep breath.

“I think I found a new favorite place,” he said.

Karen raised an eyebrow. “The museum?”

“No,” said Bobbot. “The weirdness. It’s like… home. But with cheese.”