"Witness the future of smoked turkey!" announced Professor Scorbells. He gestured to the antiseptic white walls of the chamber, punctuated by shiny steel grates and a single, fist-sized button in the shape of a turkey.
Regina was not impressed.
"Your laboratory has devised wonders of the modern age, from nuclear fusion power generation to an efficient cloning technology that was once only dreamt of in science fiction books," Regina said, "but this smoking chamber sucks. I've raised and smoked turkeys for decades, as did my dad and mum, and I can't help but say that your future looks worse than the present."
"How so?" asked Professor Scorbells, his mustache falling with sadness. Even his thick spectacles drooped.
"First of all, these walls are gonna get stained within the first hour. And I don't see any bars or cables or anything to hang the chickens in. There's no holes to place 'em in. If this is purpose-built to smoke turkeys, then you needed to have built-in hardware installed. Now you're only going to be mucking about with temporary stands and this and that. Where's the space for your fire? No dug-out pit? Not that this shit - pardon my French - would handle the temperature. What is this, some kind of polyplastic board?" Regina asked, rapping her fist against the floor.
"Oh, no, you misunderstand. This isn't a chamber to smoke a turkey. This is a chamber for smoked turkey," Professor Scorbells said, brightening.
"You mean storage?"
"Not exactly," Professor Scorbells said. "Are you hungry?"
"Peckish," Regina replied.
Professor Scorbells pressed the turkey button.
The chamber hummed with ventilation fans as the air in the chamber began to flow. Regina smelled a faint smoky odor.
"And that's far too little smoke. I can't even see it," Regina said. "Your combustion is too hot."
"No, no, Regina. Again, you're still misunderstanding. Are you hungry?"
"I'm still...actually, no, I'm not anymore."
Professor Scorbells beamed like a flashlight floating in a tank of electric eels. "That is because you are not inhaling smoke. You are inhaling smoked turkey. Airborne delivery of turkey! It is entering your bloodstream through your sinuses and lungs without all of that messy chewing and digestion and, er, visiting the restroom. I call it nanoturkey!"
Regina's eyes narrowed. "And what, pray tell, is the purpose?"
"Buffet situations, of course!" Professor Scorbells said, oblivious to the dangerous edge in Regina's voice. "How I hate the stampede to the buffet line, and if you dally, you shall be lucky for a scrap of lettuce and a molested biscuit."
Regina pulled out a silenced laser pistol and burrowed a cauterized hole through Professor Scorbells' skull. His corpse toppled to the floor.
"Apologies, Professor Scorbells, but this world is not ready for you to put my family smoking operation out of business."
A hidden speaker clicked as it came online.
"My apologies to you, Regina," said Professor Scorbells' disembodied voice.
"A clone!" Regina shouted, glancing at the corpse.
"Yes. You may take solace in the fact that he knew the risks and leaves behind no family. We have that on video, Regina. The true face of the smoked turkey cartel. The federal authorities are already on their way."
The Moral: If you want to make money off of suffering, invest in silencers for laser weapons. You bastard.