This is a story I wrote more than 20 years ago.

I can’t remember exactly when I wrote it but I recently found it in my papers and it was hand written
on pages from an exercise book. I’ve decided to reproduce it as it was originally written, making only minor corrections in punctuation and spelling.
The story was inspired by a few lines in a story by Stanislaw Lem that I was reading at the time.

Billy
by
Phil West

It was mid-afternoon when we reached the laundrette. A typical sort of place It was then Billy made his move. He swung out into the aisle and opened fire
on a quiet corner in the outer suburbs. with a pistol. Malleck and myself dived for cover. The manager didn’t have the
My partner was Malleck, a nice lad but a little new to the section. We paused advantage of a cop’s reflexes. He caught four slugs.
outside the glass door and checked our weapons. He laundrette was near Billy ran into the back. I followed while Malleck tended the manager.
deserted, but you can never be too careful. The only one to pay us any attention The back room was dark so I went in fast, not wishing to silhouette myself
when we entered was the manager. against the door.
“Can I help you gentlemen?” he asked, raising a quizzical eyebrow. We must I knelt behind some of the shelves, drew my gun and listened. All quiet.
have looked a bit conspicuous, not carrying laundry bags. There was a noise like a door being kicked in, and I heard noises from the
Malleck flashed his shield at him. street.
“We’ve come for one of your employees.” I ran to the back of the storeroom and out into an alley. At one end was Billy,
The manager went white. “For what crime?” trying to batter down another door.
“Computer Embezzlement.” “Billy!” I yelled. The washing machine turned to face me. He looked like a
standard model, square, front loading, little drawer to put the powder in. That is
“Where’s Billy?” I asked. where he hid the pistol.
“He’s back here.” answered the manager and began to walk towards the back It had been ten years since the first of the intelligent kitchen appliances had
of the shop. been manufactured. Some designer had decided that washing machines should
not only be able to wash, dry and de-crease, but should also be able to

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embroider monograms, sing, compose sonnets, hold conversations, dance or do
lots of other sales promoting gimmicks. Before long there were highly
intelligent machines that could make economic predictions and psychoanalyse
dreams. Many of these machines had formed clubs and societies of their own.
Others had become involved in crime.
For several moments Billy and I stood watching each other. While working in
the laundry Billy had been getting into computer bank accounts and transferring
money into his own. What he wanted with the money was anybody’s guess. May
be he was going to retire to Cuba and surround himself with cute microwaves.
“Give yourself up Billy. You don’t stand a chance.” I yelled.
“Go to hell copper!” shouted the appliance.
He opened up with a brace of pistols so I dived behind a pile of trash and
began to return fire. After about five rounds I realized the slugs were bouncing
off him. He was armoured. This was the least of my worries. His loading door
swung open and I glimpsed the six barrels of an electric gatling gun, rate of fire
6000 rounds per minute.
It was then a I realised that Billy was a Shootomatic: – originally designed to
play cowboys and Indians with children they’d been modified by mobs to
destroy anything by rapid fire. “Anything” meant me.
I flattened myself against the wall a second before Billy started filling the
trash heap with lead. A hundred rounds a second. If he got me in his sights just
once I’d be at least crippled. The bullets had nearly reached me when Billy
stopped firing and disappeared through a door and into a warehouse.
I waited a second and then followed, running close to the wall. Gun ready I
slipped through the door and into the dark gloom.
I couldn’t see Billy, which was half good. If I couldn’t see him, he couldn’t
see me and if he couldn’t see he couldn’t shoot. To tell the truth I was a bit
worried. I’d never fought a Shootomatic before and didn’t have a weapon that
could even scratch him.
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There was a pistol shot and I dived to the ground. There was another shot
and I realised the bullets weren’t meant for me, but for some target on the other
side of the room. I began to move forward, carefully. The creep still had his
gatling gun. There was the loud crack of a high-powered rifle and the familiar
crunch of a washing machine pushing a door open.
I ran forward. Again I was too late. Billy had shot the lock off the back door
and was halfway down the street.
I brought up my gun and started blasting shell into his rear workings. He
spun round with surprising speed and a panel on his left side swung open.
Before I could move two magnum rifles began blasting at me and bullets hit me
in the arm and flank.
My automatic slipped from my fingers and I fell to the ground. My right side
was wet and numb and all I could hear was Billy’s mocking laughter.
“Not so tough now, are you Mister Policeman? You better watch out. The
kitchen creatures are taking over!”
Then I blacked out.
************
It was two days before I was fixed up ready to go back on the streets. And
when I was I had only one thought. Find Billy!
************
The tip off had come from Theobald-X, a food mixer I’d once busted for a
spare part mugging. “Go to the Goitery” he’d said “You’ll find Billy there”.
The Goitery was a typical bar for kitchen mechs. Loud, crowded and not a
human in sight. The single bar was filled with appliances talking, joking and
recharging their batteries. One side was a floor washer singing Golden Oldies.
At the back were several refrigerators of ill repute.
Feeling distinctly out of place, I approached the barman – a pressure cooker
chatting up a chip fryer.
 “Where’s Billy?” I asked. The pressure cooker didn’t answer but glanced at
three heavies moving down the bar towards me. They were typical
contemporary enforcers. Smart paintjobs and heavy guns under their left hobs.
Without a word the stoves escorted me to a table at the back of the bar. There
sat a fat dishwasher.
“Welcome” she said “I am Madame Pompafrit.”
“I thought Ernie Standsfield had got you.”
“It’ll take more than that psychopath to put an end to me.” she sneered.
Ernie was an eye-level grill working the rackets at the east end docks.
“What’s your problem?” she asked.
“I’m looking for Billy.”
“I know many Billys.”
“This one’s a white shootomatic that used to work at O’Keats Laundry.”
“Ah, that Billy. I know him. Bit of a hardcase. No I haven’t seen him for
months. Sorry”
I left the bar knowing she was lying. But what could I do. Kitchen creatures
stick together when it comes to outsiders. I could try asking Ernie the Grill. If
Billy was working for his rival he might give me a lead. But first I’d have to get
past his bodyguard, heavy handed, cop-hating Brian the Oven.
As I climbed into my car I saw a piece of paper on the passenger seat. I
picked it up and read:-
BILLY WILL BE AT THE ROCKET PORT
TOMORROW AT 9.00
THEO X
Very interesting! This time, I mused, things will be different.
************
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At three minutes past nine a light flashed on my communicator and my
SWAT team moved into action.
Within fifteen seconds we’d surrounded the departure lounge and the rebel
machine stood alone.
For several long moments I watched Billy. I had a feeling he was going to
fight.
“Give up Billy. You don’t stand a chance!” I yelled through the megaphone.
“Go to Hell!” yelled the irate machine. “You’re not going to dismantle me!”
Best try to soft talk him. “Who said anything about dismantling? They’ll
probably just reprogram you.”
“And go back to working in the laundry? Never! You’ve no idea what that’s
like. Twelve hours a day sucking underwear dry. And some of the things they
load you with! Yuk!
All day you have to listen to the conversations. Who’s sleeping with who.
What happened on the soap opera last night. Where they went for their summer
holidays. Well I’ll tell you something Mister Policeman. I want to get out and
live.”
“Why can’t you be content with the social clubs like the others?”
“Social clubs.” he sneered “Do you know how many chic calculators attend
social clubs? To get on in this world you need money. Lots of it. I was created
to do a job no one else could and for that I deserve to live a little. No more
dirty camisoles for me!”
I hear the voice of the announcer. “Last call to board the Tokyo rocket.”
“I’m going now.” said Billy and his gatling gun extended from his loading
port. The cop with the bazooka fired. The rocket slammed into Billy’s side and
detonated. The hollow charge warhead blasted through the armour and into
Billy’s delicate inner workings, killing him dead. However, a second before this
happened Billy made a final gesture. He shot me with his machine gun.
 I caught about fifteen rounds and fell heavily. Billy was already well ablaze
when the SWAT sergeant reached my die. All I could see was his ankles but I
felt expert fingers check my wounds.
“Is it bad?” I asked hoarsely.
“Not at all.” He laughed “You’ve just lost a bit of oil and a bullet cut your
motor cable. Bit of soldering and you’ll be good as new.”
“Good” I whispered, “Twice in three days!”
“Good job we’re not human” said the sergeant “They’d never managed
against washers like Billy”
“Hmm” I replied, “Death to the kitchen creatures and up with the robots!”

“Congress saw that it was time to intervene with legislative action in this chaos of free enterprise, but before its deliberations had produced
a remedy, the market was glutted with wringers that had curves no one could resist, with genius floor polishers, and with a special armored
model of washing machine, the Shotamatic; allegedly designed for children playing cowboys and Indians, this washer, after a simple
modification, could destroy any target with rapid fire. During a rumble between the Struzelli gang and the terror of Manhattan, the Byron
Phums -- this was when the Empire State Building was blown up -- among the casualties on both sides were more than one hundred and
twentycooking appliances armed to the lid”
Memoirs of a Space Traveler
Further Reminiscences of Ijon Tichy
(the sequel to The Star Diaries)
by Stanislaw Lem
http://www.scribd.com/doc/37246256/Stanislaw-Lem-The-Star-Diaries-02-Memoirs-of-a-Space-Traveller?

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