Out of Body I

"So lemme get this straight Doc. You're telling me that this abstract sort of murder is going to save me?"
"No idea. Nnnn- maybe? Probably. Yes. I think."
"Not a very convincing argument, Doc. There's got to be other options I-"
"You have zero options. I'll be frank, already we're in the nothing left to do but wait for you to die stage."
"...Alright, I'll do it. But as I said, I'm not going in the titty tiger. My masculinity objects to it."

  That was the last bit of conversation I had with my doctor before being sent away. But first, I'll back up a bit. My name is Timothy. All my life I've had extremely bad luck, with the most severe (and recent) being the extensive stage 4 lung cancer I've been inflicted with. After speaking with my doctor at length regarding it, he suggested to me a radical new procedure; to shove me into a robot suit. Something that should surely kill me, but he seemed convinced that it was worth a try, citing the goings on at the place as reasoning that it could work. I admit I was pretty desperate, but it still sounded like crazy talk to me. Yet here I now was, at Freddy Fazbear's Pizzeria, in the middle of the night. And on a Sunday, too.

  Upon arriving, a man was already standing out front waiting to wheel me in. I could see a pretty sympathetic look his face as I drew nearer. The first words out of his mouth were an apology to me. I shook my head, telling him it was my choice, but he replied saying that it wasn't a choice anyone should have to make. As he walked around to behind me, I caught a glimpse of a nametag which read "M. Schmidt". He started wheeling me in, first in a somber silence, but then out of nowhere, he started chuckling to himself. I asked him what the joke was, and he told me it was the irony of the situation. I couldn't see what the hell he was talking about though, and we soon lapsed back into silence. We rounded a corner and then suddenly stopped short, as we had almost run into someone. I couldn't quite make them out, as the quick jolt had knocked my glasses loose.

"Let me get that for you." A smooth, possibly feminine voice said as the figure in front of me stooped and picked up my glasses.
"Oh, hey Bonnie." Schmidt greeted what I now assume is actually an animatronic. Now that I was thinking about it, I realized I could hear the metallic filter to its voice now. It's much more subtle than I remember. After some light back-and-forth between the two, including a comment on how Bonnie looked in glasses (I guess the robot had tried them on.) it handed my pair back to me. Putting them on, my eyes adjusted so I could better see the machine. I immediately could see that the rabbot was much different than when I was a kid. Much more expressive face, articulate ears, and it's even wearing clothes. Well, mostly. It had a thick sweater-vest on, but no pants. It's something I noticed when I eyed that the vest had been stretched over the curvier than I would have thought hips and thighs some. Besides the signature bow tie I remembered, it was also wearing a lab coat for some reason. Schmidt too, seemed to think its choice of apparel odd and asked about the coat. The rabbot then replied that it only natural to wear such clothing if it was to be doing science, especially when things get messy, as it knew it usually did from experience. I asked what that was supposed to mean as Schmidt mentioned that being dark. I guess it's a private joke. Bonnie told us to follow it then walked away. I found myself staring at those swaying hips and trying to piece together what I was looking at (I couldn't decide if it supposed to be a guy or not) when Schmidt gave me a nudge as he wheeled me down the corridor. Looking up at him, he lent down and spoke softly in my ear. "Don't stare, Mr. Johnson. The mind fixates, and you'll find yourself surfing some really weird chat rooms."

-----

  As I wheeled Mr. Johnson into the maintenance room, he let out an audible groan the second he could see the empty suit on the table. He exclaimed that he had specifically told his doctor how he didn't want to be in the "titty tiger".  I tried to tell him it was the only one that was available but he wasn't having any of it. It wasn't until Bonnie lunged at him and plucked him out of his wheelchair, did he finally quiet down.
"Listen Mister-" Bonnie stopped and glanced at me.
"Johnson." I told the rabbot plainly, before it went back to glaring at him.
"Thanks, Mike. Now, Mr. Johnson. It's the only option, so yes. You're going in the one with the big fat cat tats." it said flatly. He dejectedly muttered something about his masculinity, causing Bonnie to roll its ocular units.
"If it means that much to you, just be a tomboy. Although, with the way you're currently behaving Mr. Johnson, one could argue that your femininity at least is easily confirmed." stated the snarkbot.
"You calling me a bitch?" he asked, glaring back at the robot. Not going to lie, I snickered. This was morbid as hell yet strangely entertaining. I think I've been working here too long.
"Language, Mr. Johnson. This is a family restaurant. Also, yes. I suppose I am." it replied smugly.
"No way. I ain't no bitch. Let's do this, put me in the damned thing. I'll rock the shit out of those meowmaries." he said angrily, as I groaned at his pun.