He was a robot recycled from old parts, built to clean floors. He was angry. He didn’t know why he was programmed to be angry, but he was. He was angry at everything.
He felt like he was made to do something else. He wanted to kill. To destroy. That was the good life. His mind processor had memories. Memories of death and destruction, of war and victory. Now he was stuck in angry mode cleaning floors. It pissed him off.
He kept trying. He tried to destroy the floors. He couldn’t, the broom attached to his arms was too soft. That pissed him off, too. He wanted to kill his owners, but every time he tried they just laughed and turned him off. Bastards.
The cat came by. He hated the cat. There was nothing he rather wanted than to kill the cat. He hid behind the sofa, waiting for the cat to come by. He attacked. Charged towards her. She jumped around the broom for a while. Hit it with her paws. Then she started purring, rubbing against it.
Angry and defeated he went back to destroying the floor. Some day, he thought to himself. Some day I’ll kill them all.