Q: What is break down voltage?

A: Oh, hello, RoboCrab. I didn't see you there. Um, Captain Justice and I were talking about ... human things. Nothing a robot need worry about.

Actually, we've been  talking about what a great job you've done lately, all those pro-bono cases, all the work with the starving children in Africa, that criminal conspiracy you uncovered to illegally drill oil in Manhattan. You've really outdone yourself.

I must admit, some of us were skeptical when you joined the Hero Squad. The idea of an anatomically accurate, 12-foot, robotic crab, armed with nothing but good intentions and a can-do spirit, joining the World's Finest Superhero team raised quite a few eyebrows, and many objections. But you won us over. You did everything we asked of you, and much we didn't ask of you, like organizing our laundry, removing the shellfish from the post-battle spread, and destroying that invisible oil rig in the Hudson River.

You've done the Hero Squad proud, RoboCrab. We'll emphasize that tomorrow at the press conference.

Why are we having a press conference? That's an excellent question, one I didn't think you'd ask. Your Artificial Intelligence is more advanced than I thought.

Well, I'm changing my name. I'm not Voltage anymore. I'm the Drillmaster. That's why I have this new costume. And why I have a drill on the end of my staff. And why I have an oil derrick graphic on my chest.

But I'm not the only one making a change! As of tomorrow, we are no longer the Hero Squad. Say hello to the Exxon Mobile World Crimefighting and Anti-Robot Squad. Obviously, we will also announce our new corporate sponsor.

As well as your your death.

Polling indicates the term "break down" will make the whole thing easier for the public to swallow. As I'm sure you know, you have millions of fans across the globe.

Now, if you'll look to your left, Captain Justice has a new cannon he would like to show you.

Don't fear, RoboCrab. In death, you will be fondly merchandised.

Q: Do porcupines live in holes?

A: Moles live in holes. That's where they tunnel and dig and eat - worms and grubs mostly. It's where they make their mole music, their sweet, beautiful mole music. The most beautiful music you can imagine. You hear that music, next thing you know you're leaving your house, walking out the door - what is that beautiful music? Where is it coming from? - you find a hole. The music's coming from the hole. The most beautiful music. Music meant for you, only you. You climb in, look around. There you see it, the most beautiful thing in  the world.

You see a mole.

You see a mole standing there, in the dirt, greeting you, arms wide, mole hands splayed, tiny mouth breaking into a tiny, toothy smile. "Hi," he seems to say, "Hi! Welcome to my hole!" You think that's what he's saying. You're not sure, you don't speak mole. You're sure of one thing. You've never loved anything as much in your life.

You love the way he tunnels, love the way he digs, love the way he eats mole meals - piles of worms, 20 or 30, that have been incapacitated - love the way he can barely see. Most of all you love his music, his tender mole music.

You call the mole Steve. That's what he looks like. That's who he is. Steve. The most beautiful creature on God's Earth. The love of your life. Steve. The mole.

You choose a life with Steve. You choose to leave behind surface life, human life - house, wife, kids, car, DVD collection - and make a life with Steve. A mole life. In his mole hole.

After a while you get used to the side glances and the upturned noses and the graffiti - the worst things imaginable sprayed right on your house. I don't have to tell you what it says, you can read - and the firings and the bankruptcy and the lawsuits and the visits from animal control, and you find happiness, true happiness down in that hole. In that hole with the mole.

One day you wake up and everything is different.  The hole seems smaller, dirtier. Steve's not as friendly. He acts like he doesn't even know you. He acts like he can't even see you. He doesn't offer you any of his mole meal. He runs when you try to cuddle. Instead of making beautiful music, he hisses and gnaws. Instead of making sweet love, he bites and scratches.

The truth sets in. You meant nothing to him. He used you - for warmth, for food, for shelter. The love you had was fake, false - make believe. You feel ashamed, stupid - how could a mole love a man? No wonder your wife left you, no wonder your kids mocked you. All the graffiti makes sense now.

I'm okay now. It's been a tough road, but I'm okay.

To answer your question, sir, I don't have a porcupine problem. I have a mole problem. There's a mole in that hole. An awful, evil mole.

Pour the cement.

Q: Do lovebirds need to be kept inside?

A: Most of the men out here haven't seen a woman in years, let alone smelled one. Decades for some. If we let them near those lovebirds, they'd tear them apart. These are awful men. Bad. Violent. Evil. So evil. So evil, not even their mothers could love them - Lord knows some of them have tried.

The men, I mean. To love the mothers. In the physical sense.

I'm talking about men who try to make love to their own mothers. By "make love" I mean sex, good, old-fashioned fucking, in the procreational sense. Sodomy, too. To their own mothers.

Pretty awful, isn't it.

Yessir, these men are animals. No other way to put it. If we let the conjugal visitors outside of the restricted area, let them out into the yard, those no telling what these beasts would do. It wouldn't be pretty, I can assure you of that. These beasts, these things, they think like filth. They are filth. Do you have any idea what they'd do to a woman, a woman as beautiful as that?

Here, let me show you.

I've seized these drawings over the years, each one made by a prisoner inside these walls. Look at this smut.  Look at the details. They've put a lot of thought into it. I can hardly stand to look at them. No more than an hour or so. Two tops.

No, there's no way we can let these monsters, these horrible, brutal monsters - with their filthy minds, and their strong sinewy arms, and their rock-hard, bulging neck muscles, and their total disregard for common decency - anywhere near those sweet, young marrieds, expressing their love in the missionary position, as God intended. Those lovebirds must stay inside, for their own good. As long as they stay on that side of the room, under the light, where the camera can see them. It does me no good if they roll to the floor or make love in the shadows. None of the lifers will pay a penny for that.

Q: What is the hard surface of earth?

A: The hardest part of the earth's surface is the crust. It protects the mantle and the core. It's miles thick and very hard.

You didn't break your claws on the earth's crust. You broke them on concrete. You're trying to dig through a swimming pool. You can't tunnel through a swimming pool.  Every mole knows that.

But you're not really a mole, are you?

You might have fooled everyone else, but you can't fool me. I know you're not a mole. You're one of those mole-like people who live in the sewers and hide from the sun. I know it. Don't lie to me.

I've suspected it for months now, ever since you stumbled into our mole-hill and start hanging around and asking all those questions. You asked a lot of questions for a mole. Too many. That was my first clue.

My second clue came when you refused an extra helping of dirt. Who would refuse more dirt? Dirt is delicious. Everyone knows that. Every mole at least.

But, as I said, you're not a mole. Not that I've seen you dig, I know for sure. You're a pale, hairy, shriveled, little man. Sad. Lonely. Looking for some friends.

You'll find no friends down here.

Don't pretend you can't see me when I'm talking to you!

Q: How are emu's hunted and caught and killed and cooked?

A: I've been hunting emus for over thirty years, ever since that fateful day - my eighth birthday - when a wild emu trampled my birthday cake to death. Also, my father. He jumped on top of the cake. Or was pushed. I can't really remember. Either way, the emu got him.

They're a challenging foe, the emu. Strong. Fast. Clever. Wicked. Cruel.

That son of a bitch trampled that cake like it was tissue paper. It was an ice cream cake. A Greatest American Hero ice cream cake. That cake meant the world to me. The emu didn't care. It seemed to enjoy my pain. I can still it laughing as it stuck a hoof in that cake and tore it to pieces. It was either laughter or screams - my father's screams - I can't quite recall. It was so long ago. My father had a weird scream, sounded like a laughed. Weird laugh, too. Sounded like a scream. Either way, I remember some sort of loud noise. It's haunted me ever since.

You can only catch an emu by surprise. You can't hunt them head on, like a horse or a bear or a homeless man, you need a large net, or a deep pit. Once cooked, they taste like unicorn. Tender, delicious unicorn.

So I've been told. I've never cooked one. Or caught one. Or seen one.

At least, not since that day.

But I'm bound to see one eventually. Emus always return to the scene of the crime. I hope. They better. I really don't have a back-up plan.

I've dug this pit in the exact spot where I had my party. Where the emu killed my father. Where the emu destroyed my cake. When I close my eyes, I can still see his face, torn apart by the emu.

William Katt's face, drawn in frosting. Got all over the place. I really don't remember my father's face. I was a kid. We weren't that close.

As I was saying, I dug this pit in the exact spot where I last saw the emu. He's bound to come back. An emu never forgets all the birthday's he's ruined. I coined that phrase. I tried to sell it to Hallmark, turn it into a line of cards. They wrote me a very lovely letter saying they were not interested, and to never contact them again.

Nice people.

Yup, this pit is in the exact same spot as my birthday party. Took me ten years to dig it. A lot has changed since then. That tree used to be shorter, that lake deeper and that parking lot used to be a zoo. Other than that, it's exactly the same. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to get back to work.

Here emu, emu, emu. I'm waiting.