I, Lennon Part 8: Asimov's First Law

The room was bathed in an eerie blue glow and men in surgical gowns and masks stood around testing various obscene looking instruments, Neil Lennon was strapped to an operating table while I sat in the observation deck with Donald Findlay, Martin Bain, Graeme Souness and Stuart Cosgrove who was still dressed as a bat. They hadn't tied me up because as Souness pointed out, I didn't have the balls to try to escape. I found the whole situation very strange because I've visited Murray Park many times over the years and never come across this part of it.

Then below one of the surgeons approached Lennon, pressed a scalpel to the side of his face and looked up at us and nodded. Then he cut around Lennon's face with the scalpel and peeled off his skin while Lennon lay there without flinching. Carefully, the surgeon pulled back the epidermis and revealed underneath, a skull - not made of bone but of metal! So this was why Neil had been rolling around the park at Hampden and Lennoxtown with steam pouring from his ears - he's a robot! But hold on, I thought, I've seen him bleed, I've seen other very human bodily fluids pour from his body so this android must have replaced the real Neil Lennon at some point recently. Donald Findlay spoke up as if having read my thought process.
'Yes Spiers, the real Neil Lennon is being kept somewhere and was replaced with this remarkable contraption sometime around the four nil defeat by St. Mirren but we're not sure exactly when. We were onto it almost immediately of course, after its antics during the semi-final but we just couldn't be sure given the past behaviour of the real Lennon. We had to be certain though considering we're now entering the final stage of the season with a game against Celtic still to come - who could risk some hideous self-destruct mechanism hiding within this metal body that could take out our first team in one fell swoop? The questions are, where is the real Lennon? Do we care and who is operating him because is sure isn't Peter Lawwell who is quickly losing his grip these days and doesn't have a clue about this, wouldn't you say?'
'So, so what do we do next?' I stammered.
Findlay chuckled and sucked on an unlit pipe as we all looked down at the operating table where Lennon's head lay in a dish, wires hanging from it's neck.
'That all depends what happens this weekend,' said Findlay and winked.