by Rob Dircks
Where the Hell is Tesla?
By Rob Dircks
Goldfinch Publishing
New York
Published by
Goldfinch Publishing
an Imprint of SARK Industries, Inc.
www.goldfinchpublishing.com
Publisher’s Note:
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. Use of Nikola Tesla as historical figure and character have been approved by William Terbo, grand nephew and last living relative of Tesla.
Copyright 2014 Rob Dircks.
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without permission in writing from the author, except for the inclusion of brief quotations in a review.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Rob Dircks, 1967-
Where the Hell is Tesla? (Part Two) / by Rob Dircks
p. cm.
ISBN 978-0692246603
Print editions manufactured in the USA
To William Terbo
(grand nephew of Nikola Tesla
and last living relative)
Thanks for the help!
Table of Contents
Part One: The Journal
Disclaimer: Please Read
1. Today at "Work"
2. If You Get This, Call the FBI
3. Sorry, I Accidentally Hit Send
4. I Met Myself, and I Am Actually Not Bad Looking
5. Lists Make Me Feel Better
6. Forget That Last Part
Part Two: Where the Hell is Tesla?
7. Being a superhero? Turns out it sucks.
8. Wait, let me back up
9. Ouch my head hurts
10. I Was On Good Morning New York!
11. About That Meteorite...
12. The Demon and the King
13. We died. Kidding!
14. You're not going to believe this
15. Bobo's New Toy
16. To Tesla, Or Not To Tesla
17. I finally went to church. sort of.
18. Shit just got (even more) real
19. Why did i think Tesla would still look forty?
20. Who's Calling
Part Three: Saving the Multiverse
21. Bee's Knees
22. The Great(ish) Escape
23. Hey! I liked that foot!
24. We Should Really Get Going
25. Earth Fragment Five
26. Five Minutes Without Shit Exploding
27. The Epic Battle for the Multiverse
28. Home
Afterword
Praise for Where the Hell is Tesla?
“If Bill and Ted were approaching middle age (and gotten just this much more world weary along the way), then went on an Even More Excellent Science Fact Adventure, you might get something like Rob Dircks’ debut novel, Where the Hell is Telsa? Smart, funny, and just like its titular scientist, impressively inventive, this is a must-read for anyone who aced science and, even more so, for those of us who didn’t. Which means, quite simply, it’s a book for everyone.”
– Michael Zam, Screenwriting Professor, NYU
“Reminds me of Vonnegut. Yeah, I said that.”
– Ruth Sinanian, Connoisseur of Fine Literature
Amazon.com Reviews:
“An extraordinarily unexpected delight… will appeal to fans of Pratchett and Adams.”
“A wild, witty wonderful ride through a historically accurate backdrop. You will laugh, it’s not dumb humor but very smart.”
“Very entertaining and a great homage to a great scientist. If you’re looking to laugh out loud while reading, then this is the book for you.”
“I was laughing at times and on the edge of my seat other times. The character of Chip is wonderful.”
“I advise all readers to not attempt to read this before bed or a nap thinking you will read just one chapter. You won't and you can’t!”
To William Terbo
(grand nephew of Nikola Tesla
and last living relative)
Thanks for the help, dude!
Part One
The Journal
CHIP’S OFFICIAL DISCLAIMER:
The events depicted in the following emails did not happen. I have never been in contact with a covert government group attempting to suppress knowledge of the lost journal of Nikola Tesla. I have not been threatened with death if I divulge the secrets contained inside. They did not buy me this handsome jacket (oh shit, you’re reading this – trust me, it looks great). They did not come to my place, and liquor me up, and offer to publish this book as a sci-fi comedy novel to throw the public off the trail of the real truth.
Or did they?
I’m kidding. Of course they didn’t.
Or did they?
God, I can’t keep my big mouth shut.
1
Today at “Work”
From: Chip Collins
To: Pete Turner
Date: May 27, 2015 9:02pm
Subject: today at “work”
Yo dude,
Something weird/cool happened today at work. I found this crazy book.
Wait, let me back up. After all the drug tests, physicals, psych evaluation, blah, blah, blah, I couldn’t wait to sit on my ass and do nothing. It’s a security guard job, right? I’m not even working for the FBI – just a contractor, watching this old research building until it gets demoed for new condos or some shit.
But they don’t even give me a desk. An office, sure, but literally nothing in it. Not a single tack in the wall. Nothing. So I’m guessing I’m supposed to stand there all day. STAND. Dude, there is NOBODY around, and I’m going to stand at attention? Screw that. So I ask Ted (he’s the FBI guy who comes by in the mornings) if I can have a desk and a chair. “Sure, slacker.” I mean, he didn’t say it, but he might as well have. Dick.
So he takes me into the bowels of this place – it’s HUGE, dude – and I’m thinking “I’m supposed to walk this whole thing every day? Right.” I’m looking around, I can’t believe how long this hallway is we’re walking down, and Ted stops all of a sudden. So I bump into him, totally by accident, and he glares at me like he’s going to pull some FBI karate shit on me or something. I’m all apologies, though, so he relaxes his Bruce Lee stance a little and points at the door in front of us.
“In here.”
I know, I know, get to the book. But dude, you had to see what was in this room. I’m talking THOUSANDS of desks, piled up to the ceiling. And this isn’t a small room. It’s like an airplane hangar. Bigger. A zeppelin hangar. So you’ve got thousands of desks – the old government issue survive-a-nuclear-explosion ones from the fifties – about a million chairs, and I couldn’t even guess on the boxes. A jillion, I don’t know. Is a jillion a real number? If it is, there were a jillion boxes. So Ted’s all smart and he smiles and says “take your pick.” So I point to the one on the bottom of a pile of about a hundred just to be a pain in the ass. And he’s like “I don’t care. It’s your back.”
Then he leaves, because you know he’s got better stuff to do than babysit the security guard at the mothballed research building (I’m getting to the book, trust me), and I pick myself a beauty of a desk. No dents. Minimal scratches. I hump it back to my office (on a dolly – the thing weighs more than a refrigerator full of lead weights) with a chair that still had the leather on it and didn’t look like it had been pissed on, or had a hidden spring that could leap out and claw my balls.
Okay, the book. So I�
�m sitting at my new (ha!) desk, you know, playing around with the drawers, admiring that this thing will clearly still be around in the year three thousand, and I get to the bottom right drawer. It’s stuck.
FUCK!
I am NOT going all the way back to get another one. No way. This one is it. But it’s bugging the shit out of me that the drawer is stuck. I know security guards don’t need even one drawer, but I don’t care. I’m pissed. I look around for a tool or something (I don’t know why, because there really is NOTHING in the room except this giant desk), and then storm out to my fucking car, angry that it’s raining, and that the goddam drawer is stuck, and my car is a piece of shit, and I don’t even know if my tools are in the trunk. But they are, so I hustle back in and shake off like a wet dog.
Okay, now we actually get to the book. I take my flathead screwdriver to the drawer (being pretty careful, because this thing really is an object d’art), and eventually wiggle the locking bar or whatever it is enough to pop the drawer open. Pop.
Initially, I’m like “No wonder this thing weighs a million pounds - the entire FBI Old Useless Paperwork Library is in here.” But then, since I have nothing to do (except walk the insanely-long halls, which I’ve already decided I’m never doing), I start looking through the old files and I find the book:
The Journal of Nikola Tesla, 1941-
Dude - there is some WILD shit in there. I can’t even tell if it’s true or not. You want to hear some of it?
From: Pete Turner
To: Chip Collins
Date: May 27, 2015 11:31pm
Re: today at “work”
Who’s Nikola Tesla?
From: Chip Collins
To: Pete Turner
Date: May 29, 2015 9:47pm
Re: today at “work”
Wait - seriously? I mean, I don’t know a lot, but you’ve really never even heard of him? TESLA, dude – the electricity guy. Invented alternating current. Invented the radio. Invented radar. Crazy smart geek scientist type.
Well according to Wikipedia (how do you think I knew all this stuff?), he got old and weird, talking about communicating with extraterrestrials and shit. End of story, right?
WRONG.
What they don’t say on Wikipedia is what I found in the book. Dude – this badass invented an “INTERDIMENSIONAL TRANSFER APPARATUS.” (I know, I know, what the hell is that.) Apparently Tesla was big into waves, waves of all kinds – radio, energy, whatever. And somehow he figured out that you could jump onto a different set of waves – and into a totally different dimension.
So I’m reading this, and I’m like “huh?” I mean, the guy’s not exactly explaining down to my reading level in this journal. But this is what I piece together from the book using my caveman brain, Red Bull, and three full days of research while I’m at work (a.k.a. sitting on my ass):
•At any particular moment, an event has infinite possibilities (not “event” like a wedding, “event” like anything, like you going to the fridge for a sandwich)
•Each possibility actually happens, on its own wavelength (I know, you’ve never heard me use the word “wavelength” before)
•These infinite combinations of event waves create an infinite set of separate, distinct dimensions. (Okay, I copied that one right from the journal.)
WTF, right? Okay, so if you’re even more caveman than me (which I think you are), here’s an example: let’s say you’re hungry. You decide to go to the fridge and grab the leftover half a sandwich from Subway. Nom-nom. Done. That’s dimension number one.
OR…
you decide that leftover half sandwiches from Subway are for losers, and you deserve a fresh one, so you get in your car and drive to Subway, but on the way, BAM! you get hit by a truck and die. That’s dimension number two. Now the poor world of dimension number two is without Pete Turner, who could’ve been president or invented a cure for cancer (not likely for either of these, but I’m making a point). So you can see (hopefully, because I’m not going into this any more) how screwed up and different things get pretty damn quick – and that was ONE decision by ONE guy about ONE sandwich.
You still with me?
From: Pete Turner
To: Chip Collins
Date: June 2, 2015 10:03pm
Re: today at “work”
Maybe. What kind of sandwich was it?
From: Chip Collins
To: Pete Turner
Date: June 3, 2015 6:22pm
Re: today at “work”
Really? That’s your question? Chicken Ranch Melt. I don’t know. It doesn’t matter.
Listen, dude, get over here NOW. I found something at the end of the journal. I’ll call you, too. Get over here.
2
If You Get This,
Call the FBI
From: Chip Collins
To: Julie Taylor
Date: June 4, 2015 5:43am
If you get this, call the FBI
Hi Julie,
Listen, I know I’m a douche. I had no excuse to say what I said, and now I’ve left you hanging for a couple of months. I’m totally sorry.
But now I really need you.
I don’t know if email even works where I am, but you’re always my go-to for help, so I figured you’re my best shot. It’s life or death. (I know how many times have I said that before, but this time I’m serious.) Here’s the nutshell:
Me and Pete are trapped in between dimensions and we can’t get out.
(Wow, actually typing that makes me realize how stupid it is to think an email from my phone might somehow make it to you. But right now you’re the only thing that’s standing between barely-holding-it-together Chip and totally-shitting-his-pants Chip, so that’s the plan.)
I’ll explain, and maybe while you’re reading this you can get in touch with the FBI and get us the hell out of here. You’re the best. I love you. (I know, NOW I say I love you, now that I’m desperate and stuck between dimensions. But I was going to say it anyway, I’m just – like I said – a douche.)
Okay, so I’ve attached my emails to Pete as backstory for you and the feds. (BTW, you may want to remind them that they lost the journal in the first place, so I didn’t really steal anything. In fact, a little bonus might be in order once we get out, seeing as we found their book and discovered some pretty earth-shattering shit here. But we can talk about that when we’re all safe and sound and at home.)
Caught up? Good.
So Pete comes over to my place, and I show him the last entry in the journal. Well, not right away. First we have a couple of PBRs and play Madden until I kick his ass. He hates that. You know, because he’s all great at sports and I can’t even throw a football like a third-grade girl, but I can still take him down on the Xbox. Remember that time we were at your place and he got so pissed he tipped over the coffee table? You were laughing so hard you started to choke, and I thought you were dying so I did the heimlich (or my version of it), and you were like “Get the fuck off me, I’m fine!” Then we both cracked up and Pete stormed out.
Okay, now I’m an idiot. I’m sitting here crying into my stupid phone, only now realizing – obviously too late – how much I miss you. If you were here you’d say “awww” (after you slapped me in the face for being a douche).
Sorry. Back to the part where we desperately need your help. So I read Pete the last entry in the journal (using my Serbian accent you love so much):
“7 January, 1943: I, Nikola Tesla, will now enter the INTERDIMENSIONAL TRANSFER APPARATUS, a portal of my invention (he always puts the name in all caps - it’s annoying.), located in the back of the closet in the north guest room. I have activated the latch, and have peered inside. Exciting! I will leave this journal for future generations to follow in my footsteps. But first, please tell Mr. Charles on the seventh floor that I will enjoy no longer having to smell his disgusting food aromas. And inform Mrs. Burdge that I will no longer be able to look after Fluffy when she is away on holiday. Goodbye.”
Yo
u know what I’m thinking, right? It seems stupid now, of course, but I’m thinking we HAVE to check out this INTERDIMENSIONAL TRANSFER APPARATUS (now he’s got me doing the all caps). See if it exists, and see if it works. (Spoiler alert: it definitely works! Help!)
Okay, I know I’m getting off track, but you’ll love the conversation me and Pete have after reading this:
“So, you want to check this thing out, right?”
“Fuck no. What are you, an idiot?”
“Dude. What could possibly go wrong?”
“Classic. Cut to scene of us in jail. Or scene of us dead. Or scene of us God-knows-where in space-time.”
“Well it would be space, not time. It would be the same time no matter where we went. It’s a dimension machine, not a time machine. “
“Oh, gee, now I totally want to go.”
“Yeah. No time issues. No meeting your older-slash-younger self shit. I don’t think.”
