Space Janitor took one of the straps and pulled the pack towards him. It was heavy once it left the tabletop. Space Janitor groaned.
“Are you calling me fat? Because that would be a good way to make a first impression.” said the backpack. Space Jointer put the other strap over his shoulder. He let it fall a little before he foisted it up into a more comfortable position.
“I was not expecting the weight is all Mr Back Pack,” said Space Janitor. He widened his paws to balance. Swayed a little before he steadied. Space Janitor puffed his chest out. He felt his back curve to accommodate for the distribution.
“Mr Back Pack. I wish I were a Mr Back Pack. Model four to specific. In fashion right now. Turns into a bed for those who want to party all night. Do you know what I am? That’s rhetorical before you start guessing. I’m a Spenglactic 1.3. I’m going, to be honest kiddo. Actually, I lie. Let me dump some thermic gas into your cranial capacitators. I’m the best there is, I’m not a few versions behind. My custom modules are definitely not in need of fine-tuning. Also, my sarcasm metre is not broken at max level. You can clearly hear my customisable 20th-century era Brooklyn accent is correct for the job at hand. I don’t resent you.” Space Janitor stood in silence, not knowing whether to expect another onslaught.
“OK, Mr Spenglactic,” said Space Janitor.
“I’m not finished. Also, Mr Spenglactic is my manufacturer. Call me Spengz, it’ll make it easier on the transcribots. Before we set out, I need you to verbally consent to a partnership. You and I, are we going to be a team?” asked the Spenglactic.
Space Janitor thought about the proposition for a moment. The silence was immediate. He rapidly nodded.
“Hey, a physical gesture means jack. Are you good?
