by Rob Dircks
But instead of healing me, in perfect unison, the Bobos start chewing their own hands off.
“OHMYGODWHATTHEFUCK?!?! THAT’S DISGUSTING!!! ISN’T ONE MISSING LIMB ENOUGH?!?!”
And now I know a new answer to that joke:
What’s grosser than gross?
Two furry aliens chewing off their own hands
over a big puddle of blood and puke and finger pieces,
and some poor guy who’s foot just got chopped off
by a breach collapse.
Oh, and that’s also when I pass out again.
From: Chip Collins
To: Julie Taylor
Date: June 4, 2015 5:43am
Re: Hey! I liked that foot!
Hi Julie,
Okay, so I wasn’t awake for any of this, but apparently some pretty crazy shit happened while I was out. I’m still weak, so I made Tesla type it out for you:
At first, we were all astonished at what was taking place. The identical Bobos were kneeling over poor Chip’s lower legs, gnawing their own flesh. With so much gore, I dare say I nearly discharged the contents of my own stomach!
Before Pete, Meg or I could remove the two clearly disturbed creatures, the Bobos regurgitated their newly chewed flesh onto Chip’s ankle, quickly molding it with their remaining hands around the bloody stump where his foot had been.
We stood in shock as the next events unfolded: the flesh began to adhere itself to Chip’s own – and grow! Within the space of ten minutes, both Bobos’ hands had grown back, and Chip had grown a new foot! All limbs as good as new!
With one notable exception.
From: Chip Collins
To: Julie Taylor
Date: June 4, 2015 5:43am
Re: Hey! I liked that foot!
Hi Julie,
“A FURRY FOOT?!?”
“A FURRY FUCKING FOOT?!?!”
Sure, Tesla tries explaining how magical this all is, but I’m not buying. Who wants a furry fucking foot?
“Chop it off again. I’d rather have no foot.”
“Dude, you’re in shock. Calm down.”
“And how the fuck did I get a furry foot?! The last I looked, I didn’t even have a foot! Can somebody tell me what the fuck is going on? And another thing…”
And Meg slaps me.
“I’m sorry. But this is a good thing. Let me explain.”
And because I don’t want to get slapped again, I cower and listen to Meg’s way-too-techy explanation.
Meg’s Way-Too-Techy Explanation of What Happened to My Foot:
We already knew from Meg’s previous way-too-techy explanation about Bobo that he can regenerate himself like a starfish, using asexual reproduction. But that’s not all. Because starfish have cells like stem cells that are immature, they can grow into any limb or body part needed (whatever, she could be making all this shit up and I’d have to believe it because I’m ignorant). So Bobo’s chewed flesh (gross) somehow bonded with my own, triggering a signal to grow back my foot. However, because it was a mixture of Bobo’s and my own DNA, I now have a stupid-looking furry foot.
“I don’t care. I’d still rather have no foot. Nikola, you’re a man of reason. Would you want a furry alien foot? Truly, deep down in your heart? Wouldn’t you rather have a nice pair of crutches? Or a hand-carved mahogany peg leg? Please cut this thing off, will you?”
“Chip. We are obviously not going to cut off your new foot. Can you not see even one positive thing in this?”
Hmm. I hesitate. I look down at it. “Well, it’ll never get cold.”
“Excellent. Anything else?”
“I’ll always win bar bets.”
“Um, all right, fair enough. Now anything more obvious?”
“I can walk, I guess.”
“Exactly! And with shoes and socks on, others won’t even notice.”
Pete joins the feel-good party. “And dude – I’m sure it’ll look normal if you shave it.”
“Nice. Fuck you.”
“Hey, and you can hump your own leg now!”
“Now really fuck you. That was low.”
“Sorry, dude. Got carried away. Here, let me help you up.”
So him and Tesla grab me and get me on my feet, and wouldn’t you know – I feel fine. Like totally normal. So I kick Pete in the nuts with my new foot. “How’s that for a leg hump?” (Don’t worry, Julie. Pete’s got balls of steel, and shrugged it off like it was a gentle breeze.)
Then I go over to the Bobos and bend down and pat them both on the head. This sucks for sure, but I guess a furry foot is better than no foot. “Thanks, dudes.”
“BEEZNEEZ.”
24
We Should
Really
Get Going
From: Chip Collins
To: Julie Taylor
Date: June 4, 2015 5:43am
We should really get going
Hi Julie,
So we’re standing there, it’s been probably ten minutes, discussing alien feet and our near miss with the breach, and Meg is falling all over her new crush Tesla, her idol, and it’s awesome because Pete is getting jealous. Jealous of eighty-six year old Nikola Tesla. Like red-face jealous. I love it.
She’s even stumbling over herself. “..and, and, and I am in awe of your work with electromagnetic induction. Believe it or not, believe it or not, only now are some commercial enterprises beginning to leverage your concepts for wireless energy transmission. Simply wow. Wow. You are still so far ahead of our times.”
Tesla allows himself a sheepish grin. “I am flattered, Miss Thatcher. Speaking of that work, I think I’ve solved some of the coherence and range limitation problems. Would you like me to share what I’ve devised?”
Meg’s knees go weak, and those freaking eyelashes start fluttering like crazy. Pete actually steps directly between them, like Tesla’s some goon hitting on his girl at a bar. “Um. This is nice. But shouldn’t we be talking about stopping WHO?”
“WHO!!!”
“Chip dude, calm down. I’m talking to Nikola.”
“NO! WHO!! LOOK!!!”
They all turn to the direction I’m pointing, down the hall. And sure enough, way down, just close enough on the horizon to see, is WHO. And he’s charging this way. Pretty damn fast, too.
But instead of running away, I freeze. And then I remember and smile. Santa’s back! Man, I never knew Santa could run like that. He’s probably rushing over here to make sure I get that Xbox I wanted for Christmas.
But Pete ruins my Christmas fantasy and grabs me.
“RUN!!!”
Woah. Pete snaps me back to reality. (Mental note: gotta watch out for that crazy whammy shit WHO can pull. It’s like he can hypnotize you. Btw, thanks again Pete, for saving my ass for the umpteen millionth time. If you ever get tired of doing that I’m a dead man.) So anyway, we start running like hell, trying to stay ahead of WHO, without a plan. Just run forever, I guess that’s the plan. Good plan.
“TURN LEFT HERE!”
“WHY?!”
“NO IDEA!”
“OKAY! GOOD!”
“TURN RIGHT!”
“SHOULD I ASK?”
“NO!”
So it goes on like that for a while, all of us screaming like baboons at each other and tearing down the hallway, banging into turns and doors and shit. And I can see Tesla running out of steam (doing a damn good job for eighty-six, but still), and Pete’s carrying both Bobos, so he’s not going to last much longer either, and fucking WHO is like an olympic marathon sprinter or something, no signs of giving up. Even with one fingerless, bleeding hand. If we don’t come up with something quick, we’re fucked.
“WE HAVE TO DUCK INTO A DOOR!”
“NO! HE’LL JUST FOLLOW US IN!”
“OKAY! NIKOLA! IT’S ABOUT TIME FOR SOME OF THAT GENIUS!!”
Just then, Nikola trips. And he skids on his ass like ten yards down the hallway. (I would laugh, it’s totally funny, it would get like a billion hits on YouTube, but yo
u know, it’s Nikola Tesla, and also we’re all about to be taken back into WHO’s psychedelic prison.) He’s laying there, looking pretty pathetic. (I know, I know, me at eighty six will look ten times more pathetic.)
“Chip! Continue without me. I’ll try to…”
“…to what? Fight WHO? No. Duh. You’re coming. Let’s go.”
I quick bend down and pick up Tesla. I put one arm around my shoulder, and Meg puts his other arm over her. And as the three of us and Pete turn around to run again, we stop.
“Here. Hurry. This way.”
What the fuck?
From: Chip Collins
To: Julie Taylor
Date: June 4, 2015 5:43am
Re: We really should get going
Hi Julie,
You’re not going to believe this.
(Wait – I should just stop saying that, right? Like everything that’s happened since I started writing you these emails nobody would believe anyway. Shit’s crazy. Don’t ask.)
Anyway, standing there right in front of us is this guy in a fancy futuristic biker suit, shiny black and silver, with a motorcycle helmet and gloves and everything. He reaches his hand out to us and talks. His helmet’s closed, though, so we can barely hear him.
“Hhrrmphtthhwy.”
“Uh, what?”
“Hhrrmphtthhwy.”
“It’s a little hard to hear. With the helmet. Muffled, you know? It’s like ‘Hhrrmphtthhwy’.”
So the guy bends down, takes his helmet off, and lifts his head to look at us. “I said ‘Hurry, this way.’ Is that better?”
And Meg faints.
It’s Pete.
From: Chip Collins
To: Julie Taylor
Date: June 4, 2015 5:43am
Re: We should really get going
Hi Julie,
Holy shit. It’s Pete.
Well, another alternate Pete. Like Alternate Badass Biker Pete. “Come on. The door’s right over here. Let’s go. Bad guy’s catching up.”
I can’t resist. “Dude. Cool biker suit.”
Alternate Pete gives me this look like I’m an idiot (oh yes, it’s definitely Pete!). “Cool furry foot.”
But before I can say “fuck you” to our new friend, Alternate Badass Biker Pete is rushing over to help regular Pete pick up Meg. They stop just long enough to have that weird moment where you smile when you meet your alternate from another dimension.
“Hey bro.”
“Hey bro. Listen, we really should get going.”
And sure enough, WHO has enlarged from a speck on the horizon to a pretty big-sized bad guy barreling toward us. I can see his bloody stump of a hand. We’ve got another thirty seconds tops.
So Alternate Badass Biker Pete gets us over to a door, and dials in the combination. I peek over his shoulder. 1-2-3-4. Of course!
Chip’s Official Moment of Enlightenment About the Door Combinations
Okay, so now it’s crystal clear. Our dimension has a combination of 0-0-0-0. Other dimensions have some crazy combination between integers that make it virtually impossible to guess (in addition to the various realities where Tesla, Chip, Pete, or the journals don’t exist, so there’s no clues that the door even exists). But there must be those dimensions who have easy-to-guess combinations, like 1-2-3-4, and where Tesla’s journal was found. Apparently this guy has both. It’s official. I’m smart.
“Okay, folks - IN!”
So we all scramble through the doorway. (Meg’s turn to hit her head. We’re in a rush, but I still have time to laugh. And she still has time to give me the finger.) We cram into this little chamber. It’s not another elevator, it’s a little bigger, more like a dorm room or something. There are posters of space and stars on the wall, and this big kick-ass-looking gaming system under one of the posters.
“Wait. Won’t WHO just follow us right in?”
But Alternate Badass Biker Pete is way ahead of us I guess.
“Let him try.”
He sits down at the gaming system and hits a button. The door behind us makes some whooshing and locking sounds. And then we jolt forward.
“Hold on, people.”
Holy shit.
This isn’t a dorm room.
That’s not a gaming system.
Those aren’t posters of stars.
And Alternate Pete’s not wearing a badass biker suit.
We’re in outer space.
This is some kind of shuttle. The posters are actual windows. We’re out in the middle of fucking space. Alternate Pete is at the cockpit controls in a space suit (question for later: why can’t NASA come up with wicked cool space suits like this?) and we’re hurtling through the void.
“Holy fuck. Wait. Where’s the hotel room?”
“Have a look.”
Alternate Pete slows down and maneuvers the shuttle around so we can see where we just came from.
“It’s just space. Nothing.”
“Give it a second. WHO should be trying to get in right… about… now…”
And I see it: a little sliver of light, the shape of a doorway. Then a little body comes rushing out, into the vacuum of space, and holds on to the door for dear life. Then the little body claws its way back inside (with only one good hand – I’m impressed) and the doorway closes.
Alternate Pete smiles. Then he says maybe the coolest thing I’ve ever heard: “Asshole might be able to collapse universes, but he still can’t breathe in space.”
We all let out a little sigh of relief.
The Bobos, in appreciation I guess, go over and try to hump Alternate Pete’s leg. But he shakes them off. “Dudes! Come on, I’m driving.”
Meg’s adjusting to the gravity in the shuttle, and leans on Pete for support. She squeezes his arm, and manages a smile. “You know, this guy’s kind of cute.”
“He’s me. Of course he’s cute. Don’t get any ideas.”
“Please. But I do have a million questions for him.” She turns to Alternate Pete. “While we’re underway, may I ask you a million questions?”
“Sure. Let me just set our course for Earth Fragment Five.”
25
Earth
Fragment
Five
From: Chip Collins
To: Julie Taylor
Date: June 4, 2015 5:43am
Earth Fragment Five
Hi Julie,
Earth Fragment Five? Meg’s head practically explodes. Now she has two million questions, and she’s having a nerdgasm.
And God, her Q&A session with Alternate Pete would scramble your brains. So instead, while we’re being transported to some base in the middle of nowhere, I’ve decided to condense the entire true story as Alternate Pete relates it into my first easy-to-read mini novel:
Earth Fragment Five:
A Space Odyssey (Based on a True Story)
A Cell Phone Novel by Chip Collins
In the beginning, there was a parallel dimension (I’m assuming you’ve got the whole infinite parallel dimensions thing down) that was identical to our own, except for one little tiny, itty-bitty difference:
The Alpen-Norton meteor’s orbit was off by .000031 degrees.
Now that doesn’t sound like a lot, and it wouldn’t matter, except that over millions of years this orbit kept getting a wee bit closer to Earth. And in 1904 the meteor buzzed so close that every single person on the planet shit their pants at the same moment. Kersplatt!! (Imagine the dry cleaning bill.)
Unsurprisingly, everybody freaked out – riots, looting, religious extremism, violence, mass suicides. Ah, the good old days.
But finally the hero of our story said “Uh, are we just going to rape and pillage like fucking pirates until we kill each other off, or figure this shit out?” And they all looked at him, and said “Shut the fuck up asshole,” bum-rushed him, and hung him up by his thumbs in the town square. (I made that part up - but it’s good drama for the novel, right?)
Okay, truth is, they don’t kill the guy – they actu
ally listen to him. You know why? Because our story’s hero is Theodore “Rough Rider” Roosevelt, that’s why. President of the United States. The Man on Horseback. The Hero of San Juan Hill. T.R. (Alternate Pete goes on for like five minutes with the nicknames, I had to cough really loud to get him to stop.) Anyway, Roosevelt gathers the world’s top astronomers (not astrologers – those motherfuckers were adding to the chaos. He had them all thrown in prison) and they determine that exactly eighty years later, in 1984, the meteor would strike Earth with a direct hit. 100% certainty. Boom.
The End.
Right?
Wrong. Teddy was like “Fuck that shit. I’ll be goddamned if my great-grandkids aren’t going to have green grass to roll around in, and wild horses to tame, and little red one-room schoolhouses, and all the other shit people do in the early 1900s.” (Actual quote.)
