Robocop sat up with his morning coffee in a pensive mood. Stewing in thoughts, he reclined again, sipping mud filtered hot caffeine water and reflected. Mostly about the end.

It had been quite a while since Robocop had been anywhere close to sexing it the pussy. Obviously, this dickless cyborg was never going to get his nonexistent weenus inside of a bergina, but sometimes he got close, or at least, would have, if he didn't have a shiny metal codpiece for a crotch, and that was okay.

Robocop's band had also been on extended hiatus. Very little heavy metal thundered out from anywhere in Roboccop's apartment. Neither from the instruments of his bandmates nor from his personal collection of compact discs and audio tape cassettes. Robocop did sing most of the lyrics to Black Sabbath's War Pigs while in the shower not long ago, but that hardly counts.

Being a cybernetic law enforcement officer lent itself to long periods of solitude. Having a composition largely of gears and circuity rather than flesh and blood meant Robocop would forever struggle with intimacy among the fully humanoid. And so Robocop caught himself fantasizing about being strapped to a table and cut in half by a giant bladed pendulum.

Possessing a body that long ago abandoned the sensation of pain afforded Robocop the luxury of such indulgences. Indeed the entire concept of physical touch had become a mystery to him. So when Robocop's existential yeanrings pushed to the brink of his still mortal mind's capacity, there were few options available to deal with his frustrations. At least not like there were back in simpler times, when his friends called him Murphy and punching a brick wall triggered shooting pain up and down his arm and the rapid release of a whole wad of endorphins to soak up his crackling synapses. Nowadays punching a brick wall only achieved a tongue lashing from the owner of the now demolished brick wall and increased feelings of inadequacy and detachment.

Absent the typical emotional vents, Robocop let the giant axe in his mind slowly drop through his torso, slicing deeper after each momentary pause on either side of the slab upon which he was securely fettered.

But this wouldn't do. Robocop would be severed all too quickly. A quick and clean cut, no doubt, but it would be over practically before it even started. What about being drawn and quartered? They would have to be the sturdiest of steads, mammoth Clydesdales, or just mechanical pulleys, or whatever. But yes, attached to each limb and yanking at his metalloid joints with excruciating strain. Some bolts would pop, maybe even a flange would spring free, but the final cleavage would require additional assistance. An executioner to loose his extremities with a great big honking butcher's blade. Hacking away, several strokes to the arms and legs each. Until finally Robocop was literally torn asunder. His rent pieces streaming debris as they flew away from his withered core.

Ah, but that was too messy. Why impose with a creation of such litter. There is a more elegant way to go about this.

There was always something about the pressing technique that had the proper flare and proportion. Robocop imagined laying flat on his back, balancing a great oak door above him. The wood piled high with massive boulders that crushed down on him with the weight of the universe. All just to get to the last release when his steel exoskeleton pops like a grape and any doubts, insecurities or reservations he yet held are expelled with the gushing force of a waterfall.

Better yet, tipping over Niagra Falls and cascading to his doom. The river current serving as Robocop's personal treadmill to oblivion. This was something he could get behind. It seemed almost... regal. Of course the water would have to be molton lava. Or a terrible acid. Maybe even a carnivorous, gelatinous blob that would devour Robocop and feast on his miserable corpse. That at least had the added benefit of returning what remained of his humanity to the Circle of Life.

Now more horrible a demise began to swirl through Robocop's psyche, once death by consumption was brought to the table. And no, not the kind where you drink yourself to death. Robocop did so wish he had the ability to imbibe spirits, let alone get drunk. But a swarm of insects, ravenous insects, crawling all over his metal carcass, feasting on the bits of protruding flesh and evaporating all vestiges of the man once known as Alexander James Murphy - THAT was entirely doable!

Ah but what else? Shot off on a rocket and brunt up by the sun? Why not? Robocop was practically salivating at the thought of every molecule in his body being completely anahilated by the white hot, nuclear intensity emanating from the core of our soler system. Maybe Earth's favorite star could go supernova at exactly the moment Robocop's orbit sailed past Mercury. That'll take care of Robocop's mortal coil, most definitely.

Sure, that's all well and good, but Robocop knew there was a more complete obliteration out there. Say, why not blast off in to fucking space and find himself a god damned black hole? Holy shit did Robocop like the sound of chasing the infinite down the center of some motherfucking event horizon. Now that's something on which to ruminate! So long fucking Detroit cocksucking Police Department! Have fun licking my asshole when it's been removed from the space time continuum, Omni cunt raping Consumer Products! I'll see all you motherfuckers in hell! I'll fucking - oh wait hold on, the phone's ringing.

What's that? A Ronald James Dio band of the tribute variety? Why of course I want to sing them, the lead vocals. This is the band I have been longing to front for it, my entire life! Shut it the fuck up I have not been listening to them, the emo bands and crying myself to sleep every night. What is it that you think you know about me, lead guitarist for Clutch, Tim Sult? You just bring it, your shredding guitar riffs, and do not worry about me and whatever it is that you think my mental state is in. Yes that is fine and good bye it is to you.

Immediately after hanging up, Robocop blasted out of his apartment, shattering most of the ceiling and a wall as he flew toward his new band and their first practice. Turning around mid flight, Robocop drew his hand gun and fired several missiles into his old building.

"Go ahead and suck it, my fucking missiles, stupid old apartment and old life that can both be meeting me in hell at a time in the future that will be undetermined by me," Robocop said with a smirk.