Bomb Dogs.

Steelbeeps was a fifteen year old genius.
When she wasn't out robbing spermbanks of their unvaxxinated seed with her partner, Diversity, she had a lucrative career destroying famous works of art in galleries for wealthy private collectors and manipulators of the art market.
She would roam the streets, in her golf buggy at night rescuing robo dogs from the trash.
They tended to be heavy so she would always make sure that she was wearing her exoskeleton to preserve her back and delicate muscles.
Then it was back home to the lab for repairs.
She lived in a huge concrete panic room that had once been the bolt hole for the elite members of the Department of Justice; they had left and gone on to better things in a disused subway station beneath the city. Her father had helped her break the code on the door and once inside she had remapped the software. Her Dad had melted away in front of her eyes after getting forcibly vaxxinated by a drone. He had forgotten to wear his North Face steel mesh jumpsuit one day and got shot in the arse by a drone dart when the thing was flying by and checked his status as unvaxxinated. 
She missed him everyday.
Back at base she brought the robo dogs back to life with some lithium hydro and new leg hydraulics. She had started learning most of this stuff from YouTube tutorials and built on the knowledge with her newly acquired unlimited access to the files of Boston Dynamics and MIT.
For this up coming job at the MOCA she had designed a bomb dog packed with enough Plastique to take out the whole permanent collection of Concrete Expressionists and maybe even the Grayson Perry shite upstairs! She could only hope!
She did get to love her doggies as they started walking about and obeying her commands.
She didn't even need to control them remotely anymore; once she got them inside the gallery her voice commands would be lodged in the software of their minds, until it came time to detonate.
"You are heroes of the revolution!" She would say to them before applying the final war paint, that tended to be practical camouflage as opposed to any great aesthetic statement.
Her bunker was one large room with a medusas head of snaking multi coloured wires from floor to ceiling. Yellow plastic DeWalt tools littered the workbench which was low off the ground for easy access. The walls at her place tended to be raw grey concrete with the occasional picture randomly situated. This was usually a rare photograph stolen from a gallery before boom time. She especially liked her Hermann Nitsch black blood pieces from the Twentieth Century.
Steelbeeps hated art junk and was all about the fire and noise! Followed by the music of sirens and the crunch of collapsing walls. The most beautiful sound that she had ever heard had been a wall of concrete falling onto a car as its alarm screeched into the night. That had been beautiful.
Where the fuck was Diversity Jones!
She needed her and the Vampire for this latest gig. She went to grab a home made synth spinach smoothie from her fridge as her latest bomb dog "Jimbo" practised his walk of death without his pannier bags weighed down with thirty kilos of Plastique. The dog tip toed gracefully around the clothes and shoes scattered over the floor. She unscrewed her bottle and devoured the green juice within. Today was all about preparation before the main event that night. The exhibit she was targeting was one of a pair. It was a worked slab of concrete brought back from Greater Russia after the human wars. The artist Max Dred had served in the army there and had risked his life to transport this lump of crap back over many land borders, check points and frontiers. It was all pure myth making! The object itself had then been drilled in half, forming two Sculptures. To the mind of Steelbeeps the two grey boulders were only given the potency to make money after a load of rich cunts had jacked off over the backstory! This night of destruction would make the value of the remaining piece of art burn rocket high out of the galaxy. The name of the original piece had been "No More Brother Wars." Well no doubt they would rechristen the surviving piece in her rich clients collection "Last Man Standing." or some shit. She looked inside her fridge at the ten vials of unvaxxinated genetic wealth waiting there on the shelf. Drop this off, pick up the Plastique, then load up the Vampire for tonight's show.


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