The phantom phallus/ghost in the machine AKA the Turing Test

Due to an incident with a franking machine that had never entirely been explained to the specialist’s satisfaction, Alpha-Alpha had lost his precious love-pistol, man-digit, meat-tube ... call it what you will. The situation might have been salvaged and stitched better - but, again, for reasons not entirely clear or, indeed, forthcoming - his member had somehow fallen into a Jiffy bag, sealed and mailed itself first class to the other side of the world, where, once retrieved, had turned up a little worse for wear - manhandled (i.e. more so than could be accounted for in the way of natural attrition).

The curious thing about it – if your curiosity is aroused by such things – was that, like those cramps, itches and pains persons of a missing limb disposition complain of to their best-selling neurosurgeon, he swore he could still, on occasion, feel the ghostly presence of his little fella. Such a calamity might have turned some to a philosophical bent, instead he turned to the hi-tech world of Cosmetic Organ Cybernetics Know-how.

A succession of thick, glossy brochures had flopped through his mail box onto the welcome mat whose wipe-clean insides were festooned with high-definition images and accompanied by strap-lines such as: "Coming soon, Frankenstein's Monster: changeable novelty heads ... it will make you the envy of all your intact friends*"

"*" led, in rather smaller script, to the qualifying statement:

"Should you have any."

Since times were hard, and he was feeling the pinch in the pocket, he had plumped for a budget bludgeon, the Philip K Moby: 100% recycled scrap metal casing, encasing the latest in ultra-sensitive nano-electro neural wiring for the ride of your life.

Images are indicative only.

It went down like a bomb with Muff-Muff, but he liked the dumb weight of his new trouser freight anyway. She had the human child Dog-Star Magnetron IV to keep her occupied.

There was a knock-knocking at the door. It was late past eight. He released the multi-security latches in practiced sequence and, on opening, there was an unfunny moment of Shakespearean existential wit: the someone that was there, apparently, was also not-there.

Master Alpha-Alpha, I believe my presence was requested.

It was Paco-Paco. The former postal droid had wandered round the side to peer through the polarised Plexiglas glass windows of Unlikely Solutions Ltd and then wandered back.

Come in my little P-P

"Paco-Paco I have certain requirements - needs - if you will, in order to fulfill my, er, function. I am but a man, a man with requirement-needs, like a dog without a bone, an actor out on loan ..." His voice tightened. "Capeesh?"

Like those services I perform for Pop-Pop? Would you like me to dress up as Spak-Spak?

No, no, Sweet Lord ... but let's keep that option on the table for later.

Paco-Paco's visual sensors caught a tell-tail of what might have been the snail-trail of a pre-tear so small as to be unable to form a droplet before running out of emotional steam.

Enough small talk Paco-Paco, step into the Orgasmatron booth with me ...

But who shall play the Daddy-Daddy Master?

"Paco-Paco, you should know, as a former postal droid, it's better to give than receive," then placing a solitary finger over the droid's voice relay output orifice, whispered into his auditory input orifice, "hush now: it's time for your servicing."

Some seconds later ...

How was it for me then Paco-Paco?

Given your behavioural cues and cross-tabulating them against my database of human responses in accordance with the Turning Test, I'd estimate - satisfactory Master.

But your answer begs the question: the conclusion you wish to draw of my satisfaction is already presumed in your premise; that it can be understood by the correlative association of behavioural cues. I read that on the side of a packet of reconstituted corn substitute cereal. Multi-vitamin enriched.

What do you expect?

I am an android with total recall.

Would Master like a towel for the orgone mucus now?