Olive oil

I return home from a tricky day at the office to find my front door has been forced open. Entering tentatively the smell of burning plastic fills my nostrils. I creep into the living room and see that the kitchen light is on. I open the door to see Robocop standing over the oven, wok in hand. He turns his head to look at me, his neon green webs scanning over my face.
“Sit down Robert. I am making stir fry.” I approach him and peer over his metallic shoulder to see toy police cars tangled up in noodles melting against the heat of the wok.
“Where do you keep your Olive oil?” he asks.
“You will have to use Sunflower oil I’m afraid. I haven’t had chance to go shopping.”
“Negative” he says, and throws me through the kitchen wall into the living room of my next-door neighbours.