The Robodogs of the AA Archive

I’m attending an AA meeting. It’s up a spiral path, inside what looks like a tesla tower. The path gets slowly narrower. I see Tony and Penny struggling to ascend. I get stuck behind a little old lady, as it narrows to the width of one foot. There’s a handrail now, both are red. My left glove starts to slip, I’m worried that I’ll fall. No one can help me. I reach over, and manage the last few steps. I look back. 
What I couldn’t see, behind me on the narrow path, was how safe I was. The drop was tiny, into a laminate floor. In the middle of this floor, people sit on 70s furniture, drinking coffee. 
I navigate a huge plastic puzzle, and slide into the outer office. A couple emerge from the inner office. They dress like the 70s, and have three, friendly, robodogs with them. There used to be four. They had a band. The couple ask me if I could adopt one. I explain that pets are not allowed where I’m renting. But I realise, these are not pets. The inner office door opens. My dead dog, now a puppy wriggles out, happy to see me and the robodogs. I decide to take them all home. 
We pass an archive. It’s a huge cylinder, containing items donated for Tony and Dawns marriage. They are sorting through things. Occasionally, they become Katie Price and Peter Andre. I find an old jacket, and a stack of hats I used to wear, and some smaller, sentimental items. There’s a range of shampoo samples, and chocolate body butter. K&P appear covered in it. I ask if it left their skin smooth. P has a shower to wash it off. Workmates complain about me washing my mouldy hats in the sink. 
The archive is now outside a huge old house, and D searches for a compass I left her. She’s lost her direction. Me and a robodog carry things home. He has a Dublin accent, and I narrow it down to one, specific, area. We use an underpass. P will follow us in a van, with the rest of this stuff. 
We cut through a nature reserve. Our way is blocked by a nest in a box, with a flap, as wide as the path. I open the flap, and a cotton wool ball is fired out, then, soon after, another. I notice a rhythm. The gap between firings is the same as between AC/DC riffs on Highway To Hell. I close the flap, then open it again, beginning to sing after the first shot. They are perfectly timed. 
Behind us, a group of naturalists take notes on flora, while my dog watches out stuff. I realise that as a real dog, he’d never play guitar, or talk, or carry things with his hands. 



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