He’s maybe in his thirties and has sharp, cutting eyes that don’t wander.
“Yeah, it was a good time.”
“You do know there are penalties for doing what you did tonight.”
You don’t quite understand him. “Penalties? What do you mean? For hitting my head?”
“For sharing music the way you did.”
This guy is coming down on you for file sharing?
“What are you talking about? All I did was play a song—”
“The world is not supposed to hear ‘Gangnam Style.’”
You laugh. “Uh-oh. Did I tilt the earth’s axis by playing it too soon? What are you, the pop music police?”
The man reaches into his suit coat and pulls out his wallet. He opens it to reveal his badge. “My name is Conan Skywalker Rambo. Of course, that’s not my real name.”
“Oh, really?” you ask without any humor.
You just want to get out of here and stop talking to this guy.
“I’m Member 004 of the PCP.”
“A secret agent?” you ask.
“It’s called the Pop Culture Police. We monitor the well-being and structure of pop culture, and have done so since the 1960s.”
This guy is acting serious, as if this isn’t some big joke.
“Are you for real?”
He nods.
“So what’d I do?”
“The timing of ‘Gangnam Style’ is critical to the plan we have for the music industry. It can’t be heard until 2012. And as you know, that’s twenty-two years from now. These kids are still fine with their Bell Biv DeVoe and their Jon Bon Jovi.”
“So do you give me a pop culture fine? Like I have to do an overnight listening to Poison or something?”
You’re trying to make a joke, but this man doesn’t think it’s funny.
“We have a list of the ten songs you most hate with a passion,” the man says. “You will be forced to listen to these for one week straight.”
“Are you serious? You’re crazy, right?”
He shakes his head. “No. I’m sorry, but the balance of culture must be maintained. We now have to erase the memory of ‘Gangnam Style’ from the mind of every single student who was in that gym tonight.”
“How do you do that?”
“We have our ways. We might show them four of the worst movies ever made back-to-back-to-back-to-back. Or we might let them hear or see pieces of music or songs that have been held in the vault.”
“Held in the vault,” you repeat. “Why?”
“That is not for you to know, Willie. Now I’m sorry, but here you go.”
He hands you an iPod with headphones.
Then he points a gun at you. “Put those on now.”
You make it only a day before you go certifiably insane.
You’re stuck forever humming the tunes of the songs you hate the most.
Over.
And over.
And over again.
Until a track comes on, and . . .
And everything changes.
Sure, you don’t like this song, but it also seems to spark something different in your mind.
In fact, you realize you’re no longer listening to the iPod. You’re back in your warehouse.
The Pop Culture Police might have tried to kill you, but the time travel lords have overruled them.
Oops.
THE END
Start over.
Read “The Morning Fog: A Note from John Luke Robertson.”
A LONG, LONG TIME AGO
YOU BEGIN TO WALK DOWN the worn-out road in front of the time machine, grappling hook in hand. Rain begins to fall, and soon you’re soaked. Your jeans stick to your legs more tightly the wetter they get. And a guy in skinny jeans is just not a good thing. It will never be a good thing.
You encounter a woman who looks like she’s planning to cross the road. But she catches sight of you and the thing you’re carrying and bolts the other way. From the way she’s dressed, you realize you must be in the olden days. Like the really olden days. Biblical times or something.
You keep heading along the road until you reach a small village. It reminds you of the place Frodo and Bilbo live in those Lord of the Rings movies. The Shire. That’s it. This is the Shire, except it looks like these set designers were fourth graders.
Nobody is outdoors, and if anyone’s inside the huts, they won’t open their crudely made doors when you knock. Impatient, you finally just open one, and the woman inside screams.
“I’m not going to hurt anybody,” you tell her.
“Please, my child.”
Good news is, they speak the same language here.
Or maybe I speak the same language they do.
“What’s the name of this place?”
The woman shakes her head like she doesn’t know what you’re talking about.
“The year? The closest town?”
“Are you with the one who built the boat?”
You hear thunder and wipe your dripping face. Your shirt and jeans are soaked.
“Uh, the one who built the boat?” you ask, curious about that. “What’s his name?”
“Noah.”
You look around the dark, enclosed hut.
There’s no way.
Of course, your mind’s been saying that ever since you set foot in the time machine. But now . . . Could you really be here? All the way back in Noah’s time?
“Did Noah build this boat?”
The woman nods. “He said God would wipe out the world with a flood.”
Thunder sounds again.
You aren’t that thrilled to be back in Noah’s time. And you totally don’t know how you’re going to use this grappling hook.
Why in the world do I have a weapon Batman would use? A grappling-hook gun?
“Where is this Noah?” you ask.
The woman tells you where the boat is located. So far she’s never said the word ark, but you have an idea that this boat will turn out to be it.
It takes you about an hour to reach the vessel. And the sight of it blows you away.
The ark looks far bigger than you’ve ever imagined or even seen in drawings or films. It’s more square than rectangular too. It’s like a massive box made of wood. You can’t see any windows or doors or anything.
The rain continues to fall, and as you approach the ark, you see people huddled around it. Some simply look on; some shout; some throw things.
This is no longer a nice little bedtime story or a Sunday school tale. This is real.
It’s real and somewhat scary.
You avoid the group of people and circle to the other side of the ark, trying to see if there’s any way in.
The boat seems to be made up of layers, much the way a pyramid might be built. From what you can tell, the ark is about three layers tall.
You think about the options you were allowed to choose from before leaving the time machine. Now they make sense. Especially the grappling hook you’re carrying.
You find a place where nobody can see you. Then you fire the gun, trying to get the grappling hook over the square edge of the ark. It doesn’t work, so you have to try again.
It takes you five tries.
Once the grappling hook is secure, you begin to climb the rope. It’s wet and a bit slippery, but you realize you’re climbing for your life. Maybe your father’s life. Maybe others’.
The climbing is . . . well, let’s say it’s been a while since you climbed up a sheer wooden wall using only a rope. Or maybe you never have. As you struggle, making a little progress, then hanging on and just breathing in and out, you come to regret the elk meat you had for breakfast.
As you make it to the ledge, you hear screams and cries from the people below. They’ve spotted you. You quickly pull up the rope. You don’t want to change history—you simply want to find Phil and get out of here. Maybe check out a few animals on the ark. But that’s all.
You circle the ledge you’re on, looki
ng for some kind of entrance. Soon you spot one near the front of the ark. It’s a round opening big enough to put your hand into. Rainwater can’t get in because of the hole’s angle. You put your entire arm through and manage to pull open a door concealed in the wall.
You slip inside to darkness.
Do you search the deck you’re on? Go here.
Do you stay put until you hear voices? Go here.
2319
YOU DECIDE TO TELL THE WOMAN in the military outfit everything. Who you are and where you’re from and how you got here. She seems most curious about the time machine.
“You say it resembles an outhouse?” she asks. “What would that be?”
“It’s sorta like—well, it’s usually something outdoors where you can go take a break. You know—use the bathroom.”
She nods. “I see. A Vitronic Controllock.”
“Is that—? You’re referring to the outhouse?”
“It’s interesting that you’ve managed to get here that way. And you say this man who came before you . . . his name is Si?”
“Yes.”
She goes to the wall in front of you and touches it. Immediately a photo of Si’s face appears on the wall.
“Is this the man you’re referring to?”
You nod.
“Thank you for your honesty.”
The picture of Si goes away.
“So can you let me go?” you ask, looking down at your hands, which still can’t move.
“That is one thing we can’t do.”
The door opens and three men dressed all in black step inside.
It will take them less than ten minutes to steal every memory you have.
They can steal your memory, but they can’t have your soul. For that is forever bound back in West Monroe.
Soon enough you will be back there, memories all in place, future stories left untold. For now.
THE END
Start over.
Read “The Morning Fog: A Note from John Luke Robertson.”
TODAY
GOOD THING YOU PICKED BUCK. People forget about Buck Commander, your other business, but not you. You love it just as much as Duck Commander. And sure enough, choosing Buck takes you where you want to go.
It’s good to be home. Back in a place where one of your children isn’t missing. Back where Confederate generals aren’t giving you the stink eye. Back where you belong.
After a big dinner and some family games, Korie opens her birthday presents. When she gets to yours, you prepare her, making sure she knows it’s something very valuable and very meaningful. You can see her face light up.
That is, until she actually opens the present.
“It’s a hat.”
“A very special hat,” you correct her.
“It’s a Confederate soldier hat,” she says, deadpan.
“Yes, but do you know who that belonged to?”
John Luke and Jase stare at you but don’t say anything.
“I don’t know,” Korie says. “Robert E. Lee?”
“No! Stonewall Jackson. The Stonewall Jackson.”
Korie nods. “That’s great.”
“Serious. That thing has to be worth some good money.”
Korie puts on the hat.
“I think they sell those down at Walmart,” Uncle Si says.
“No, no—it’s real.”
“It doesn’t look real. Looks like it was made in Taiwan,” Miss Kay says.
You shake your head. “No, it’s real. I promise you.”
“Thank you,” Korie says, putting the hat back in the box.
“Look, it’s real. I mean—it’s as if I practically took it off Stonewall Jackson’s head. Jase, doesn’t it look real?”
He only shakes his head. “Nah, I don’t think so.”
You let out a sigh.
You travel through time and get a famous general’s cap and still . . . nothing.
No respect.
Next time you go back in time, you’ll borrow some jewels from some famous person. Because, as you know, women love the sparkly stuff.
THE END
Start over.
Read “The Morning Fog: A Note from John Luke Robertson.”
TOMORROW
THE DOOR OF THE OUTHOUSE SHUTS with you inside.
Nothing happens.
You look above you, then around you. Then you decide to go ahead and take a seat.
You sit for a while. Waiting.
Trying to figure out where the others went.
You’re sitting there in a wooden outhouse in your warehouse.
John Luke doesn’t appear. Neither does Jase nor Uncle Si. You don’t see or hear anything. But the more you sit on this round hole that’s meant for other things, the more you find a certain sort of serenity. It’s calm in here. It’s so peaceful.
You think that maybe you should put this outhouse in your office, and then when people start to bother you, you can simply step inside and hide.
You don’t wonder about the others for the moment, or whether it’s Korie’s birthday again, or even what you’re going to have for lunch.
You sit in the outhouse and find contentment. It’s a pretty rare thing these days.
Then a worry strikes you. There is peace and quiet in here, but in the end, what does it all mean?
THE AMBIGUOUS ENDING
Start over.
Read “The Morning Fog: A Note from John Luke Robertson.”
2319
YOU NEED TO GET OUT OF HERE NOW, so you press one of the screen images. It’s a beach scene, so it can’t be all that bad. Right?
You feel the vibration and the motion ramping up, so you hold on to a handle at the edge of a workstation until the movement stops. Then the door opens, yet the monitors don’t say where you’re at or what year it is.
“What’d you do?” Si asks.
“I saved us.”
“You think it’s safe to go out there?”
“I don’t hear anybody,” you say. “You think we’re still invisible?”
You step closer to the door opening and hear the sound of the ocean.
We’re somewhere better. Somewhere we can get a tan. But you feel your bare head and face and know you won’t be able to stay in the sun for too long.
“Ready?” you ask Si.
“Man, I was born ready. Born to be wild.”
You shake your head. You’re really not wanting anything wild. Not for a long time.
You step out of the machine but don’t recognize your location. Your feet sink as you find yourself walking in soft sand. Then you see the water nearby.
“Hey, look—there’s a horse,” Si says.
He pulls the large beast toward you by its reins.
Something doesn’t feel right.
Then again, you’ve just journeyed through time and space in an outhouse. Or in a time machine that looks like an outhouse, which might actually be worse. So lots of things don’t feel right.
“I don’t think this is West Monroe,” Si says.
“Of course it’s not West Monroe, Si! When was the last time you saw a beach in WM?”
You decide to hop on the horse, and Uncle Si gets up behind you. You don’t see anything for miles. Just sand, with water on one side and forest on the other.
For a while the two of you ride in silence. No one is around. The sun is blinding. Sweat streams down your forehead and your back.
Then you stumble upon some massive building that blocks out the sun.
“What’s that?” Si asks.
You stop the horse and dismount, staring up at the huge structure.
“I’m back. I’m home. All the time, it was . . . We finally really did it.”
Then you recognize it. No . . .
You’re standing in front of the Statue of Liberty, except half of her is buried in the sand.
You start to scream. “You maniacs! You blew it up! Noooooooooo—”
THE BEGINNING . . . OF THE END?
S
tart over.
Read “The Morning Fog: A Note from John Luke Robertson.”
TOMORROW
THE BIRTHDAY PARTY FOR KORIE was a huge success. She laughed at the picture of herself with John Luke, thinking you had done some fancy stuff with Photoshop. You ended up going outside later that night to check on the time machine, but it was gone, and John Luke and Si had no idea where it went.
Now it’s lunchtime on the following day, and you head out of your office to find Jase. You’re in the mood for a shrimp sandwich at Duck Diner. As you walk into the warehouse, you end up finding the wooden outhouse, looking just as it did the day before.
“No way.” Someone’s definitely playing a trick on you now.
You hear footsteps approaching—maybe it’s the culprit.
“Dad?”
You turn and see John Luke standing there. Wearing the same clothes as yesterday—same cap, same everything.
“Are we going?” he asks.
“Going where?”
“Going to get Mom’s birthday present.”
You look at him for a moment. This isn’t funny. Then you keep looking at him.
“What?” John Luke asks.
“Come on.”
“What?”
“Mom’s birthday?”
He has no clue what you’re getting at.
“Didn’t we have the party last night?” you ask.
But once again, John Luke’s face is blank. He changes the subject. “What is that?” he asks, pointing toward the outhouse. “Did you open it?”
Okay, fine, I’ll play along with Father Time.
“I’m not opening that door,” you say, repeating what you told him yesterday.
“Why not?”
“’Cause I think . . . I think maybe someone’s playing a trick on me. Or I’m losing my mind. Which very well might be happening right now.”
“I’ll open it,” John Luke says, grinning as he starts to tug on the handle.
“Hold on there,” you say without any conviction.
John Luke opens it anyway.
“Maybe you shouldn’t step inside that thing.”
Willie's Redneck Time Machine Page 10
