>Come the hesitant opening of the door, creaking forlornly on its rusting hinges, we found among the chaotic room's strewn insides the body of the tiny robotic maid, sprawled face down upon the heavily soiled Chesterfield.
>Moving one's eyes away from ravished dress and mockingly discarded wig next to the overturned Wingback chair nearby, we saw alternating streaks and thick patches of black breadcrumbs splashed all around, to tell of one wounded in surprise then helplessly thrown about the room in a cruel, bestial manner until, landing on the floor and reviving only with the culprit's departure, a few unsteady steps to finally succumb upon the leather loveseat. A crash of thunder, the breaking of lightning, and a flash from the heavens illuminate the whole scene for but an instant, casting dense, black shadows, playing off the wet, vicious puddle of oil from her penultimate resting place, and we all flinched back for a moment.
>On the hardwood floor, with her remaining minute, we had noticed, written, delicate metal fingers for want of a pen, with her own lubrication, a final message before she departed: "THE MAID'S A BITCH."
>We're still not quite sure what to make of it.