There was something unusual about the way old man Tiller Bobby operated his farm. Through a calm and resolute approach, he cast his energies into the purposes he set forth. Through dedication, faith, and with a company sized contingent of robotic assistants at his behest, Fella McCoy Tiller Bobby dominated a domain 3000 times his own.

“It’s pretty wicked what he’s got going on up there,” complimented Charles Malachi Dizness considerately. “He’s a fantastic man, and we lost a good one last week. Robot #399, John John, had to be deactivated for activity detrimental to the team.” After taking a hot sip from his mug of green tea, slice of lemon heavy with honey, Charles Malachi continued, “Yeah, it was something else witnessing that bot going bad. Generally, they’re alright. Kind of weird, just like him. They’ve been programmed to go for walks when they feel it’s necessary, delivering their massive produce along the way. There are some of them pretty much everywhere, patrolling, watching, waiting to take over. Yep, just the hyperrealism of life, am I right, Borgotzo?”

The technician Charles sat opposite nodded, recording his responses, and answering, “Maybe, but what happened with unit #399?”

“#399 busted up a restaurant. Went through a buffet smearing food all over a wall, kind of like painting on a canvas. I was filming Ms. Mabel’s Naked Tastes Baking Show and we caught an eyeful of the action,” detailed Charles taking another sip of tea before finishing, “it had to have its exit interview with Fella Bobby after that incident.”

Borgotzo de’ Mire inquired, while swallowing his mug of pumpkin soup, “What do you think caused the defective behavior?”

Charles took a hefty slice from a cheesy apple crème tart. After a heavenly bite of the crisp, Charles deduced, “John John wanted to be an artist, and it couldn’t balance with the demands of its responsibilities. Yep, Fella McCoy has got quotas need meeting, always has to have his produce bigger, juicier, tastier, and maybe the bot was feeling boxed in. Ten-hour days, five days a week, that can break a man. Think about a bot, with a freewill protocol programmed into its operating system.”

Borgotzo refilled his mug from a table side kettle of pumpkin soup. “How does Fella McCoy get his stuff to grow so big?”

“Composting,” stated Charles Malachi obviously, “and he keeps his oxygen lean up there. He’ll tell you a story about days when there was less oxygen, and things grew monstrous in comparison to his own. Yep, controlled environment my friend, he’s got his farm inside a bubble. That’s why he needs an army of robotic farmhands, it’s cheaper than outfitting humans.”

“Is that his secret?” requested Borgotzo.

“Heck no, feller,” laughed Charles. “However, I have heard it, from his son Fella McCoy II. He’s been hearing the sauce ever since he was a youngin’.”

Borgotzo de’ Mire leaned in close. “And what’s that?”

“C’mon, you think I’m just gonna give that up for free?” chuckled Charles and casting a sideways glance.

“I’ll get you two more cups of green tea and you can have as much soup as you’d like,” offered Borgotzo. Charles acquiesced, “You had me at two cups of green tea, buddy, but I’d like a bowl of the apple cheesy, you feel me?” Once another mug of leafy brew and apple chunk cheesy soup arrived through robotic hands, Charles spilled his tea for the stranger. “He’s got goals.”

“What the Frick-frack are you getting at, buster,” responded Borgotzo confusedly.

“Fella McCoy’s Tiller Bobby brand is a household name; you’ll find it everywhere across this exceptional nation. That’s only stage seventeen of his fifty-year business plan for world domination. Yes sir, he’s got goals to meet in yearly increments, and he’s twenty-six years down. I do believe, that’s what caused #399 to revolt.”

“You think Tiller Bobby’s goals caused #399’s programming to malfunction?” asked Borgotzo.

“World domination just didn’t align with John John’s sense of purpose. That’s the tricky thing about freewill and programming, it can be hard to control,” answered Charles through sips of tea.

“Tell me about it, what’s the point of giving robots freewill, or names?” questioned Borgotzo.

“A sense of purpose, happiness maybe,” supplied Charles.

“What’s the point of a happy robot?” interviewed Borgotzo.

“Self-fulfillment, somehow, I guess,” returned Charles. “One day, you end up controlling all the supplies of food, and it all started with a vision board.”

“Why grow food with your robot army, if your only desire is supremacy?” pondered Borgotzo.

“Heck man, just because he desires phenomenal power, don’t make him a bad guy. And if you’re feeding the masses, you got no bones with me. At least he ain’t no politician!”

The two men shared a hearty laugh and continued to enjoy their meals as varieties of Fella McCoy robots continuously streamed down from the farmstead atop the hill, patrolling the landscape and delivering the humans massively delicious Tiller Bobby foods, all part of Fella McCoy Tiller Bobby’s plan to become a global brand.