“Whatever,” Erin muttered, shaking her head. “And what about the mints?”
“For fresh breath. Would you like one? They’re wintergreen.”
“No.”
“You sure? Didn’t want to say anything, but you kinda need one.”
“Piss off.”
“Owen, we seriously need to go,” I muttered.
“Almost ready, Deanbean,” Double OT replied, spinning the bezel rings on his peculiar compass into a specific configuration.
“So that’s an actual temporal compass, eh?” Rooster asked, admiring the highly polished, bronze instrument artfully set in a rustic wooden frame that was completely covered with carefully engraved Enochian sigils. “Never seen one before.”
“This here is the genuine article, John Boy.”
“Is is accurate?”
“Accurate? Ha! In the hands of a skilled tempus phasmatis, this little baby will get you within nanoseconds of your intended destination. Every time. Guaranteed.”
“And how about in your hands?”
“Results may vary. Terms and conditions apply.”
“What the hell’s that supposed to mean?” I barked.
Still madly twisting the bezel rings, he said, “Don’t get your cloak all up in a wad, monkey man. Nothing to worry about. I’m all over this like stink on Johnny. As long as I get my calculations sorta right, we’ll be better than money for nothing and chicks for free.”
Wishing like hell Rooster actually had built a time machine, I muttered, “Why do I have the unequivocal feeling that we’re seriously screwed?”
Completing his haphazard tinkering, Double OT then announced, “Alrighty, I think we’re all set, boys and girlie. Boston, October 21st, 1775. Here we come.”
“Wait, what?” Rooster scoffed. “1975! October 21st, 1975!”
“Exactly! That’s what I said.”
“No! No, it wasn’t!”
“Really? Well, that’s what I meant. You guys ready?”
“Good luck, y’all,” Coop muttered, collecting his long bow and taking several steps back from the group. “See you soon?”
“Sooner than you know, Cooper Trooper. Everybody get in close. Time to get this party started. Cue the music!”
And, much to our chagrin, Jive Talkin’ from the BeeGees began to inexplicably thunder from every speaker in NecroLord’s lair as a marble sized ball of swirling white radiance elegantly shimmered into existence above Owen’s compass.
Watching, in somewhat horror as the light ball began to spin at a mind blowing pace while exponentially growing in size, Erin yelled, “What’s happening?”
“Temporal vortex, baby!” Owen replied, reaching into his man purse and pulling out a few packs of bubble gum.
Tossing one to each of us, he said, “Here, this will help with the spatial acclimation. Chew it like you stole it!”
“What are we supposed to do?” I yelled back, thinking there would have been a bit more preparation to frigg’n time travel than some jackass handing out Bubblicious.
As the ball of ethereal light fluidly morphed into a man sized, gyrating cyclone and began to literally suck us in like a surreal vacuum cleaner, Owen said, “Easy peasy, Deano. Just unwrap a piece and pop it in your mouth.”
“Not the gum, you frigg’n moron. The fucking time jump! What the hell are we supposed to do?”
Breaking into song, he screamed, “Don’t stop … Believing!”
“Are you serious?”
“Hold on to the … Feeeeeeeeeeeling! Street lights … People—”
“Those aren’t instructions, asshole! Those are fucking Journey lyrics!”
And before Rooster, Doc, or I could lodge another spirited protest — an ungodly screeching sound filled the room and the frigg’n vortex voraciously swallowed us like a spectral whale.
Feeling like I’d been tossed into a goddamn washing machine in the middle of a turbo spin cycle, I was quickly blinded by the waves of pulsing light as sensory overload kicked in with extreme prejudice. The brilliant light steadily transitioned to harrowing darkness, and despite my best efforts to focus on Doc and Rooster, I quickly drifted into the ether.
Right before everything faded to black, I couldn’t help but wonder how much better this experience would’ve been if orchestrated by Christopher Lloyd and Michael J. Fox instead of Owen Octavius Trask.
Typical.
Chapter 27
The clamor of slow moving cars, beeping horns, and chattering voices gently coaxed me out of one hell of a trippy comatosed state, as an Aerosmith song I couldn’t quite place softly played from somewhere in the general vicinity.
Feeling like I’d been roofied and stuffed in the trunk of a car after being relentlessly punched in the face by Mike Tyson, I struggled to open my eyes as my muddled mind fought to achieve a state of functioning consciousness.
Making the mental note that perhaps bubble gum played more of an important role to surviving time travel than I’d previously thought, it took all my effort to roll over and sit up.
“Hey, sleeping beauty,” I heard a gruff voice bark at me as a boney finger persistently poked me in the chest. “Get your ass up.”
“Where am I?” I sluggishly asked, opening my eyes yet unable to see anything but a blurry haze.
“You look like total shit,” he patronizingly chuckled, ignoring the question. “You get hit by a car or something?”
“Where am I?” I barked. “Frigg’n tell me.”
“You’re on Westland Avenue, moron.”
“Westland Ave — in Boston?”
“Of course, in Boston. Are you deaf or just stupid?”
As the stranger’s voice began to sound unfortunately familiar, I asked, “What did you say?”
“You heard me, schmendrick.”
Schmendrick?
Shit.
“Binkowicz?” I muttered, squinting to find a foggy vision of a frail man standing over me. “Is that you?”
“Of course it’s me.”
“Son of bitch,” I grumbled, staggering to my feet still summarily dazed and confused. “NecroDork must’ve screwed up the damn coordinates.”
“What are you babbling about?”
“The frigg’n vortex. It brought us to Boston — but in the goddamn present.”
“What?”
“It didn’t work,” I frustratingly grunted, trying like hell to shake the cob-webs out of my head. “I’m not supposed to be here.”
“Yeah, no shit. This is my spot.”
“No, goddamn it, you don’t get it. I’m supposed to be here. Just not now. It should be October 21st—”
Cutting me off mid-sentence, he grumbled, “Are you freaking high? It is October 21st, you schmendrick. Now get up and get outta here before I—”
“Wait, what?” I asked, as my vision snapped back into focus and I got a good look at Fred Binkowicz.
And then I about shite myself.
Although still cantankerous as hell, he was by no means the eighty year old crusty bastard that I knew in 2012. He was—
“Young,” I blurted out, pointing at him like an idiot. “You’re — young!”
Dressed to the nines in some ridiculous green argyle v-neck cardigan and gold colored polyester slacks, he suspiciously looked me over while taking a seat on a fold out chair that was positioned on the sidewalk right next to the frigg’n entrance of the Quartermaster.
“This some kind of joke?” He muttered, glaring at me like I’d lost my mind. “Did O’Dargan put you up to this? Who the hell are you anyway? And how do you know my name?”
And it was right about then when the realization of where I was hit me like a ton of bricks. I’m pretty sure Fred kept talking, but I didn’t hear another word as I spun around to find a scene straight out of Starksy and Hutch meets the Rockford Files laid out around me.
“Holy — shit,” I muttered under my breath, both shocked and elated. “It worked.”
Despite the fact that everything was strikin
gly familiar — it was markedly different. Case in point was the puke green Ford Granada parallel parking behind the shiny yellow AMC Pacer across the street. Both of which were brand frigg’n new and looked like they rolled straight off the showroom floor.
Continuing to scan the area further, it seemed that the brownstone apartment buildings were generally where they stood thirty-seven years from now but everything else wasn’t. The most glaring disparity was that in lieu of the franchise fast food joints and parking garages that lined the streets in the future, was an eclectic combination of run down bodegas, old school laundry mats, seedy billiard joints, and adult film theaters.
And, of course, rounding out the surreal retro experience were the excited gaggles of pedestrian traffic moving up and down the sidewalk dressed like extras from the frigg’n Brady Bunch complete with crazy hairdos, sanctimonious sideburns, and all variations of bell bottom blues.
With Binkowicz suspiciously staring me down like I was a complete lunatic, I think I was about to say something else incredibly stupid when I caught a glimpse of Double OT casually strolling up the sidewalk trying to get my attention.
Decked out in a double knit denim leisure suit complete with an oversized butterfly collar and snazzy high heeled boots, he motioned for me to shut the hell up as he slapped Binkowicz on the shoulder like they were old pals.
“Funky Freddy B! What up, you prophetic pimping jive turkey?”
“Trask,” Binkowicz muttered, evidently less than happy to see him. “What do you want, time freak?”
Sliding up next to me, Owen replied, “I think you mean time phantom.”
“No. I don’t. What the hell are you doing here?”
“The seventies are my jam. I’m just blowing through like a cool breeze, dig?”
“Well, do us both a favor and blow to somewhere else — like maybe Nagasaki in 1945.”
“Ha! That’s really funny yet incredibly hurtful. Loved it! Anywho, I see you found my amigo.”
Pointing at me, Fred muttered, “You know this putz?”
“Hell yeah, I know him. This is my main man, Chappie. He’s a roadie for my band. Been looking all over for him.”
“Chappie?”
“Yessiree,” Double OT smirked. “Chappie Chapperson.”
“What the hell kind of name is that?”
“It’s a family name. Lot of incest. We don’t talk about it.”
“He looks inbred alright.”
“Don’t you mind Chappie now, Fred. Despite the fact he drinks like a fish and clearly not the smartest of folks — he’s good people. Ain’t no doubt he’s dumber than a box of rocktards, but he’s harmless. Ain’t that right, Chap?”
Biting my tongue with every fiber of my being, I just forced an awkward smile.
“Well, isn’t that cute?” Binkowicz muttered. “And I suppose now that you found your moronic boyfriend, you’ll be leaving. You know you’re not exactly welcome around here.”
“Serious sauce? Is Big A still mad about that—”
“Yes. He is.”
“Right. And on that note, we’ll be exiting stage left. Got a show to do anyway. Check you later, funkanator. And dig the pants. For reals. Brings out the premature wrinkles on your forehead. Hasta!”
Reaching into his god awful sweater vest and pulling out his signature pipe, Fred just scowled at us for a long second before grumbling, “You ain’t right, Trask. Now get lost. Couple of schmendricks …”
As Owen and I left the younger, yet still incredibly disgruntled, version of Frederick Binkowicz behind and made our way across the street in the late afternoon sun, Owen muttered, “So that was a sticky wicket. Good thing I found you before you blew our cover, Chapster.”
“Don’t ever call me that again.”
“But it’s got such a nice ring to it. Chappie Chapperson. Chappie Chapperson. Chappie—”
“I will knock your fucking teeth out.”
“Ha! But seriously, Dean machine, you gotta be more careful. You ain’t no tempus phasmatis.”
“No shit. What’s your point?”
“Well, for starters, hombre, you can’t be chatting up the natives. Especially people you know from the future. Unlike me, everything you do in the past has the potential to ripple through time.”
“So?”
“Don’t you read comic books? Time paradoxes … alternate timelines … spatial implosions. Anything of this ringing a bell?”
“No.”
“Damn, son, thought you knew that.”
“How would I possibly frigg’n know that, you asshole?”
“Maybe because we talked about it ad nauseam at the MidKnight Jayde. Der!”
“Was that before or after you threw packs of Juicy Fruit at us and starting singing Journey’s greatest hits as the spinning ball of light popped out of your jacked up compass and sucked us in like a dust pile?”
“Alright, alright. So maybe I neglected to share a couple small details. Don’t sweat it, monkey man. No harm — no foul. Take a chillaxative already. Fast Freddy B won’t remember seeing you forty years from now. All good.”
“Speaking of, why the hell did I wake up in front of the goddamn Quartermaster? What happened to Doc and Rooster?”
“That, my buff buddyboo, is a curious conundrum. The vortex dropped the rest of us off in that alley up ahead. You must’ve caught a rip current or something.”
“Rip current? What the hell is that?”
“Damn if I know. Ha! Temporal navigation’s more of an art than a science. On the upside, at least you made it here intact and your body wasn’t subatomically peeled apart and scattered across unknown quadrants of the interspatial riff like teeny chunks of turkey jerky.”
“Are you saying that was a frigg’n possibility?”
“Did we not talk about this?”
“I’m really not liking you right now, Owen,” I muttered, making the mental note to punch him squarely in the face when this whole thing was over. “So, is this where you saw Ronkowski the last time?”
Looking at the piece of string carefully tied around his left pinky finger, he replied, “Must be. Stringy Stringerson is never wrong. Ronk’s gotta be close. Fenway’s a couple blocks from here, right?”
“Yeah.”
“So, he was probably pushing the Sausage Rocket to the tennis game when I ran into him last time.”
“Baseball game,” I grumbled as we approached a dark alley about halfway down Westland Ave. that was tucked inconspicuously between the Shamrock TripleX Emporium and Tipsy’s Budget Wine and Liquors, Your Friendly Neighborhood Packie.
Ducking into the cover of the backstreet, my nostrils were instantly assaulted by the overpowering stench of urine and garbage as I was more than happy to see Rooster huddled next to a large dumpster.
Wrestling with the butterfly collar on a truly horrific mustard yellow belted sweater as he uncomfortably squirmed in a snazzy pair of white bell bottom corduroy slacks, his eyes flashed red as he grumbled, “Not a word about my outfit.”
Chuckling under my breath, I said, “What are you talking about? You look good. Sort of like a transvestite version of Robert Redford mixed with a less hairy Burt Reynolds. It works. Seriously. Real nice.”
“You’re an asshole.”
“Tell me something I don’t know. Like, for example, where the hell’s Doc?”
Boldly emerging from behind the dumpster while tucking her dueling shoulder holsters into a retro denim jean jacket complete with a white fluffy sherpa collar, she was dolled up in a flower print halter top that was tied into a bow and showing off enough midriff to induce spontaneous drooling in any red-blooded American male.
Completing the outfit with a pair of mesmerizing low cut jeans held in place by a colorful tapestry belt and some sassy brown leather boots that looked like they belonged to Lynda Carter, she was the vision of a retro goddess — to put it ever so mildly.
“Sweet baby Jesus,” I muttered, making the mental note that the seventies looked a hell
uva lot better on Doc than it did on Rooster.
“Your turn,” she smirked, tossing a peculiar aerosol can at me.
“What the hell’s this? Deodorant? Look, I know I could probably use a shower but—”
“Ha!” Double OT interjected. “It ain’t deodorant, whistlebritches. Although you are a bit funky at the moment. And I’m not talking about the good funky — like Funky Brewster. Definitely more like a funky bum muffin with a serious case of the funky booty syndrome. Comprizzle?”
Offering him nothing but an icy stare in response, he said, “Alrighty then, just give yourself a squirt of my Garb Gas and we can get this show on the road.”
“Did you just say Garb Gas?”
“Yeah, buddy. Think of it as a time traveler’s urban camouflage. Made special by Harlan and Willa.”
“And what does it do?”
“Duh! It’s an enchantment that instantly transforms your attire to the provincial particulars of whatever time period you happen to find yourself in. Go on now, getchu some.”
Figuring I didn’t have much to lose, I gave myself a healthy application of the obscure mist and watched in somewhat disbelief as my sullied jeans, blood stained white RoosterBragh tee shirt, and jungle boots morphed into a short sleeved, powder blue jump suit complete with a hood and white sneakers.
“Twisted! Nothing says party in the front like a stretch terry onesie. That’s some serious polyester, monkey man. Sham on!”
“You gotta be kidding me with this shit,” I scoffed. “I’m not fucking wearing this.”
“Why not?” Rooster snorted, absolutely beaming at my absurd get up. “You look great. It’s kind of an ambiguously gay Deacon meets Charles Bronson at a wine bar on the mean streets of San Francisco motif. Only thing you’re lacking is a pornstache and a hair helmet. Actually, you kind of have the hair helmet going on, so—”
“Change it back,” I grumbled, glaring at Owen. “I want my other clothes. Right now.”
“No candomundo, big man. It’s a one shot spell. But, don’t worry — It’ll wear off soon as we get back to the future.”
Wrath of the Fallen: The Guild of Deacons, Book 2 Page 25
