So far, only two inanimate objects have had the privilege of HOF induction: Sly’s legendary pair of scissors and, naturally, Bronson’s wine bottle. They deserved their moment in the sun, after all; preserved in amber for future generations to remember, yes, but more appropriately, revere. But even that glorious pair, had they been granted life, would rap my knuckles for a gross omission that only now gets rectified. Inexplicably, I had forgotten the Toxic Waste. It was right there in front of me the entire time, and shame on me for keeping it under wraps. Not only did it define a film – Robocop – it defined an era. While that blessed vat only claimed a single casualty, it was unquestionably the decade’s finest. So fine, in fact, it created an action figure that, to this day, sits proudly on my memorial shelf next to the shitter.
The casualty, as we all know, was Emil. Crude, boorish, and sporting perhaps the lowest IQ in all of greater Detroit, he loved to rape, fire big guns, and craft a catchphrase or two (“I like it!”). That is, when he wasn’t driving a van into, you guessed it, a vat of toxic waste. We’ll leave it to the experts to explain why such a container was tucked away at an abandoned steel mill, and why no one saw fit to send its contents elsewhere. But, as stated, this was apocalyptic Detroit, and who on earth would ever doubt that business tycoons and politicians would happily store one of the world’s deadliest substances at a bustling workplace? Hell, it could just as easily have been in the breakroom, given the spirit of the times. At least they had the decency to label the shit.
The brilliance of Robocop’s vision (taking dead aim at the cowboy in the White House) was that the public/private partnership had eroded to such an extent that a true public interest no longer existed. Law enforcement, like everything else, was a for-profit enterprise, and it seemed the logical next step to keep dying cops alive just long enough to transform them into union-busting cyborgs. No sick leave necessary. They could work round-the-clock for no pay, and those pesky pension funds could be put back in the pockets of shareholders where they belonged. If we’re not there yet in 2025 America, it’s only because the technology hasn’t kept up with the vision. Because the vision, I assure you, is about the only thing left standing.
In a way, Emil deserved better. A born criminal, given his genetic predisposition, he can’t really be faulted for being a slave to the grind. By all appearances, he worked hard at his craft, and if we’re being honest, he died in service of an ideal. A Boddicker-led city was in fact a land of opportunity, and had he lived, he very well may have sat in the halls of power. Ironic, then, that the true killer of Emil would be Clarence himself. The toxic waste was but God’s hand to set it all in motion.
After howls of pain and pathetic pleas for assistance, Emil foolishly (though understandably) ambled into the middle of a busy thoroughfare for his date with destiny. Clarence had but a second to react, though who knows if he’d have swerved, given the chance. After all, though Emil was a loyal foot soldier, who is Clarence to deny the folks a genuine treat? He’ll even flick the windshield wipers for that extra twinkle of sadism. Here one minute, steaming chunks of flesh the next. That’s life in the big city. And for Toxic Waste, the greatest one-and-done of them all.
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