Young Steve! I say, old chap, I leave the campus for two weeks to handle a problem at the campus two weeks in the future, and lo, you have arrived and immediately been expelled!

I shall take my leave of the Time and Space department (now housed in an underground fortress in the Richard Nixon Space Travel Wing) and attend Westlake High School with young Vortex. Perhaps I can show him that true gentlemen do not need cheating to win the heart of a lass. No, not even destruction. What they need is to be a gentleman, and a particularly manly one that.

Ho ho! I say!
 
 
2004-3-3   play ball

Jolly good! I thought I would post here my letter to the Psyhigh Board of Education. Unfortunately I was only able to fit the first page of the letter. Something about the server’s buffer being too small for the whole thing. Perhaps I will just hand out copies to the students, if I can find a printer capable of printing the whole thing.

Dearest Psychic High School,

I write this letter to men and women of great stature. It is I, Ricardo Rembrandt, Leftenant Colonel of the British Time Commission for the Founding Out and Squelching of 19th Century Contemporary Journalists for the Purpose of Modern and Future Economics. I visited the school this week out of opportunity, to enjoy the great times and gentlefops of yesteryear. However today I must act out of duty, for by your hand a great student activity might be stricken forever from your North American soils. I appeal to you all, ladies and gentlemen! Do not let the considerable pressures of life smite the fire of love for your athletics teams! Do not decommission the ninjaball team, I beg of you! To do so would be to cower in the face of adversity, which I know is not Your great breed! Hear me now!

I am reminded of a time in my own youth, when I played sports in the United Kingdom. We exerted ourselves in the name of the Queen, and had both sound body and mind to show for it. These things helped light the fire of inevitability in my breast, that burning flame that drove me to seek the strength of manhood! I would not be the tower of resolve standing before you today if it were not for the trials and tribulations of boyhood rugby, football, and croquet. To deny this of today’s young boys (and girls, I suppose) is to invite the limp wrested metrosexuals to wear the hat of semi-womanhood for all men! We must not allow this! Boys must be given the choice to lift weights, grow dusters, and woo women with African expeditions and daring-do, they must learn to face down lions and dinosaurs and countless other dangers with the unwavering eye of overt masculinity! Girls that wish to be like men must have that opportunity as well. They must have the chance to lift slightly less weight, cut their hair short, and woo men by drinking, talking, and acting like other men (but with breasts), and also by learning to shoot large firearms. In short, without the ninjaball team we are damning the masculine to a state of ambiguous feminine weakness! Would you do this to your own pups? Surely not!

You of the Board of Education know, as I do, that these children are our future. They will take over our companies, our governments, and pay our Senior Citizen’s home bills! We want all kinds of men and women to replace the wide variety of men and women that roam our fog strewn metropolises, but especially we should desire imposing, blustery types, for they are the gears that build bridges for railroads in foreign countries, that act in the name of the Queen (or your nation’s equivalent), or that take expeditions to hellish places mostly to take pictures of oneself posed with one foot on the body of a huge dead animal, proud as the day is long!

So therefore I have information to add. Ha ha! You must have assumed that this letter would be all bluster, and you are mostly right! However, I bring to you new developments that should sway your opinion if my hot air has not. I have come to know that the ninjaball team has a potential sponsor, who for the time being shall remain anonymous, and who wishes to not only pay the costs associated with Coach Cooper’s designs for a stadium, but to

PSYHIGH BUFFER EXCEEDED. BUFFER ONLY HAS ROOM FOR 20 PAGES OF TEXT.

 
 
2004-2-21   play ball

Leopold Starswick!

That is the name that rings in my ears as I walk through the hedge maze and around the manor house. It’s just terrific to be back on campus here at Psychic High School North America, and back with the students of the Time and Space schools. Oh, how I missed the delightful interactions…the cackles and snide remarks…the thinly veiled threats…the very direct sabotage attacks on each other’s equipment…it really makes this moderately aged British man’s heart warm!

The troops are killing (ha!) time over in town and I have joined young Louis Quick in his travels to the campus. He is apparently in touch with the Dean of the school about some kind of magazine subscription deal. I am not sure the average student would find too much good reading in young Quick’s magazine selection, but I am far from young, so perhaps I do not know!

Appropriately, the boy Quick’s latest relationship seems to have gone down the tubes as fast as possible. I was there, too, and while I don’t like to gossip, I do like to talk about people without their knowledge. It all began in Perth, when we, as patrons of the country club I mentioned, were invited to a stunning home by its new owner, a man named Leopold Starswick. He was not there at the door, but his butler Gary was, and he led us through the massive mansion around to the back, where the party was in full swing! The massive oil painting and bronze bust in the house tipped us off as to who Starswick was. He stood six foot four, blonde hair, and had a wizened face with blue eyes. Louis and I cringed at the sight of him, but the Madam smiled, and then got this sort of smirk on her face, as if she were thinking.

Starswick was easily the life (death?) of the party. What started as a series of backflips into the swimming pool led to impromptu martial arts duels with various guests, which led to the revealing of Starswick’s very own helicopter. He yelled “PARTY ON THE ROOF!” while powering it up, and flew to the roof of the house. As he jumped out on to the roof, the helicopter veered sideways and crashed into the neighbor’s guest house, setting it ablaze and leveling it at the same time. Whether or not this was by design or not is up in the air…you will more clearly see why by the end of this story.

Thusly Starswick landed on the roof of his four story behemoth, lost his balance, and rolled nearly off the edge. A stone gargoyle stopped him, and we could hear Starswick’s ribs crack as the concrete beast gave way. It fell to the ground, smashing Starswick’s Porsche 911. Starswick was already back on his feet at this point. He yelled out to us “HOW DO I GET DOWN FROM HERE?” Some of us exchanged glances nervously. He thought for a second and then seemed to have an idea. “OH YEAH!” He then disappeared to some other part of the roof. I heard breaking glass followed by an alarm klaxon, as if he had broken the glass to a fire extinguisher case, and he returned to view a moment later with a parasol and a little girl’s bicycle.

He mounted the tiny bicycle, opened the parasol, and yelled “RACE YOU TO THE POOL!!” He began peddling furiously and, with the incline of the roof helping him along, shot over the edge towards his swimming pool.

It seemed as if, had the parasol not given out a few meters into the fall, he might have made it. As it was he fell the remaining three stories, landed a meter short of the pool and broke his leg. He immediately hopped up, grabbed a javelin from a nearby armory rack, and pinned Gary the butler to the wall by his coat. Starswick then began feeding the butler cupcake after cupcake. The butler seemed used to it.

At this point I thought it was time to leave, but the Lady Armstrong had issue with that. Louis tried to usher her along but apparently somewhere between the helicopter crash and the gargoyle fall, she had fallen endlessly in love with Leopold Starswick. The rest just solidified her love. Louis and I noted that it didn’t even seem like Starswick was aware he had guests at his house at all, but she would have none of that. So off we went, alone together, and to America.

Louis is off meeting with the Dean now. He seems mildly unfazed by the whole incident. Me? I’ve taken the free time to catch up with the boys from the Freshman dorm I occupied while I was here. The great dragon Samsonite’s threat rests heavily on each of their shoulders, but otherwise they are enjoying their youth.

 
 
2004-2-12   play ball

Cheerio all! How has the past year been? I’m sure you lads and lasses over at Time and Space have some delightful stories to tell, and all well and good because I am returning to North America shortly! It mostly has to do with a BTCFOS19thCCJPMFE mission of the utmost secrecy and I really shouldn’t talk about it. Okay, okay. BTCFOS19thCCJPMFE operatives and I had to travel to 19th century New Zealand to squelch some journalists. That is originally BTCFOS19thCCJPMFE’s charter but often we are so caught up with rescuing so and so from whereabouts and stopping such and such hideous old monster from so forth that we often lose sight of our overarching goal: To kill journalists in the 1800s.

So we squelched many a contemporary journalist in the infantile British colony and made our way back to the present day. After taking our pictures in front of the Shire set left over from the Lord of the Rings, we flew to Australia to regroup before heading home. Lo and behold! In a cushy country club in Perth, who do I run into but Louis Quick! Younger brother and occasional uncle (although he says they have figured that out) to George Quick, the multimillion dollar real estate king. Louis and I go way back, as some of you may know! It was I that got Louis into his ill-fated 1920s romance to begin with, and I who slept through the subsequent wedding, which allowed George Quick to save the day in my absence, and with significantly less bloodshed. I’m a good chap, aren’t I?

Louis seemed to be up to his old tricks here in Perth. Though the boys and I found him sitting alone at a table, he was soon joined by a matriarchal maiden of the Asian persuasion. Her name was “Madam Armstrong” although Louis got to call her “Pumpkin Bunny” anytime she called him “Muffin Bear”. I was impressed. Here was Louis, well dressed, actually staying to pay for his meal, wearing clothes both bought and tailored, and with a female that was far more woman than girl. He and I excused ourselves while the boys were quizzed on small talk by the Lady Armstrong, and in hushed tones we learned we both had to head to America on business! Imagine our mutual surprise and excitement! Rembrandt and the boy Quick, together again! Watch out ladies! Erm, sort of.

So in short, Louis Quick and I will be making a stop over at Psychic High School in the next few days. Keep vigilant, youngsters!

 
 
2002-10-18   Vampiricy in the U.K.

Capt. Monet brought me a strange vase today. I was recuperating from a vicious zombie vampire bite to my left arm. I received it whilest on the streets during a raid on our final outpost some weeks ago, as zombie vampires and their agile, effeminate masters tore our forces limb from limb. My BTC companions fought bravely, and soon our armored namebadges and pith helmets ran red with zombie vampire blood. One vampire did manage to get through our line, and he bit me, so I rammed a bayonet grenade into his skull and threw him up into the air, riddling him with quicksilver rounds from Mindy. As his body dissolved, the grenade went off, spraying vampire bits over the moon, leaving a wonderful, glittery hue over everything.

It was quite a surprise to find that we weren't violently killed while we enjoyed the vampire dust shower of beauty. It turns out that at that moment, the team we sent back in time detonated their failsafe bombs, destroying the entire universe in the timeline that the infestation had come from.

It is unfortunate that they were not able to stop the master vampire, but their sacrifice/collapsing fission device did stop the infestation.

Oh, I could tell the failsafe had gone off because everyone exploded for a half a second, then reformed.

So anyways, I was recovering in Space Fortress 27, playing a good game of Return Fire on the 3do video game system, and Monet walks up and hands this seven foot vase to me. I was shocked that I didn't drop it, as my initial revulsion at the thing made me want to. It turned out that it weighed only 10 grams. The sides were an off white colour, with elaborate documentation in Queen's English. Some of the words I caught were "Bloodsucker", "Do not drop", and "1143577898436.769358.C".

Monet ordered me to drop whatever I was doing on the silly telly, kick the aide out who was currently getting reamed by my helicopter, and go with him to the Other Vault to stash this vase.

I, of course, had been faking my injuries so I could receive sick pay for some time, so I stupidly hopped up and followed. I suppose I should have tried to hop up, fake collapsed, and screamed in absolute agony for twenty seconds or so. I made a note to go back in time later and break my past self's legs.

The Vault is a giant subterranean cavern located underneath Buckingham Palace that, behind guards and large metal constructs, houses all the items the BTCFOS19thCCJPMFE deems too dangrous to "replace" into time-space*. I think the princes have a stash of various knickknacks there as well. The Other Vault contains a bunch of pottery and wooden shipping boxes that to me seem absolutely worthless.

We walked to the magic elevator that led us down 400 meters to the entrance to the Vault. We then took a left, walked down a short, ugly rock passageway, and arrived at The Other Vault, which is marked "Antiques" to confuse intruders. There we walked into the unlocked wooden door and looked upon the gigantic room, stocked floor to ceiling with ugly, ugly vases sorted chronologically. We walked about a half a kilometer (Monet said I couldn't use the little golf cart at the entrance) to a shelf marked "Oddities". I placed the vase in a space between one marked "Mummy Attack" and another marked "Germany Wins". Of course! This place contained the collected universes we deem too dangrous to exist! Whoever invented a vase that could hold a timeline must be a super genius!

Of course, Monet, being the prissy swot he is, slapped me on the back after that exclamation and said, "Silly fool, all vases are capable of holding universes!"

What a pretentious jerk!

*Replacing usually involves going back to the 1100s, 1490s, or 1930s and placing the object in a trash can or babbling brook, so that it is found by people who are far too stupid to guess its power, such as the case of one wooden spoon we placed in 1934 Scotland, which in it housed a power source so uncanny that it could melt the Earth and most of the moon.

 
 
2002-9-15   Vampiricy in the U.K.

Accursed undead took one of my closest pals, Marco, last night. It was in the Tower of London. Fighting there has been fierce. Word has it ground has mostly been lost to the vampires, even though we have felled hundreds, and thousands more of the zombie vampires.

The Time Commission has grown weary, and has assembled a team to head back in time to stop the infestation of vampires somehow. I, of course, was passed over for such a choice assignment, and left to deal with the countless evil.

One bit of good news - I managed to get into the old BTCFOS19thCCJPMFE armory, where my "black book" was. The black book is essentially a room full of extremely powerful weapons that remind me of the many, many, many women I have loved...oh the love...

Anyways, I took everything, and the remaining top BTCFOS19thCCJPMFE agents were thrilled to get their gatling cannons, rocket launchers, ion pulverizers, and smoothbore bola propellors. We used a windex bottle to spray quicksilver over all of the ammunition, and this seems to keep the undead at decent range. For any class A vampires that get through, I always have precious Mindy, as well as any number of new devices R&D is setting forward with. My favorite is a portable guillotine launcher with attached catholic bible. The Vatican wouldn't touch our situation with a one-thousand mile pole, but they're always happy to force bibles on us.

I asked Franz what he thought of the launcher, and he said the concept of launching a complete, functioning, twelve-hundred pound guillotine was a bit rediculous...until he saw it in action!

I hear Big Ben is now under SAS control again. Whoop de do. Ten pounds says they lose it by sun up.
 
 
2002-9-6   Vampiricy in the U.K.

I dare say!

Vampires seem to now have ability to make zombies! But they are apparently just really horrid, unfinished vampires.

I wanted to post this here on my old journal as a warning to anyone who might be headed to England in the next few months. The entirety of Her Majesty's gun toting and/or time traveling special forces are now devoted to the problem of the thousands of vampires leeching the country dry. They currently hold 98% of all small farm towns, gothic mansions, and large urban areas.

Not to worry, old friends! We (BTCFOS19thCCJPMFE forces) have been equipped with really large pistols and trenchcoats. It appears as if most of the agents armed with protective kevlar and more standard police gear were horribly killed, or infected with the zombie-like vampire strain. The only survivors of the first such team were a redheaded policeman who had arrived for his first day in the job, and a woman looking for her brother, who was a special forces operative. I think one of them got ahold of a rocket launcher somehow. Good show!

I digress.

Stay out of London! Also, I miss all of my old associates there in America, and would come to visit were it not for the Quarantine. Good day!
 
 
2002-4-8   BTCFOS19thCCJPMFE

I settled a bet about breasts most excellently yesterday.

It all began as we (Monet and I…more on that later) were watching “Breakfast at Tiffany’s” with our dates (who happened to be twins named Franka and Denise, and both could accelerate a tiny piece of depleted uranium to ungodly speeds, making a weapon capable of piercing the strongest armor…if they had the notion). The Captain botched an attempt to get into Denise’s kimono, and she left in a huff, dragging a very reluctant Franka behind her. While I was upset at my lost opportunity for a bit of a taste (seeing as how Monet wouldn’t let me go to the pleasure dimension anymore, and he was on to my “traveling” to 1960s USA for days at a time), I was more than thrilled at an opportunity to humiliate Monet at his game.

Our bet revolved around the lovely Audrey Hepburn and the garish Tiffany Amber Theissen. Which had the more wonderful breasts? Foolish Monet was set on Theissen’s rack, while I waxed romantic on how wonderful the classic actress’ assets were. Neither of us had seen said breasts “in the flesh,” as Roger Waters would say, so we each placed a hundred pounds [1] on the table and fired up our time sliders to travel to the years 1960 and 1992, respectively, to attempt our best to see the necessary breasts, take a picture, and come back. My task was simple enough, as Tiffany Amber Thiessen apparently had had a bit too much ‘controlled substance’ the night before and was marching down the street topless shrieking about frogs. Oh, using my powers, I discovered that indeed her breasts were artificially enhanced; she had had a “boob job” as you disgusting Americans call it…and I took my picture of her well-sized but curiously unrealistically shaped yabbos and made my way back to my time.

Monet was waiting for me in the office, tears streaming down his face. I assumed it was because he found that his time slider’s console battery was dead (not that I did anything, but it was shrieking warning all the way to the apartment; Denise asked if that was good and Monet slapped her with a glove), and he hadn’t been able to go back in time. After all, it isn’t unusual for Monet to cry, but the fact that his right eye shot lasers tipped me off to foul play. I leapt behind a coat hanger and drew my sidearm, a German issue MP40 from the War, and fired a warning burst in Monet’s general direction. I caught him mid thigh with three more across his chest, and he laughed as he plucked the bullets from their bloody nests and flung them back at me. I was really worried until he collapsed in a heap from loss of blood. I shot him thrice more to make sure he wasn’t a zombie or robot (I emptied the magazine, really), and dragged him to the accursed space fortress hospital to see if perhaps he could be saved.

Unfortunately, it turned out the five bullets in Monet’s head prevented him from effectively living, and we had to let him die. My initial reaction was the American one – exultant joy at the death (murder, mostly) of one’s boss! Hooray! Jolly Good!

Then, I started to think about it…possibilities. Was that bloody mess on the table really my captain? Or was it a robot? Was he brainwashed? What if there was a bomb in his head? Or chest cavity? And how would I ever track down the Lacrosse equipment I loaned him? That stuff could be all over the EU! And what about when BTCFOS19thCCJPMFE came to investigate? Boss murder is seriously frowned upon, defense against lasers or no!

I decided I was seriously in trouble, and did the only thing that made sense: I threw Monet’s body into his time slider, turned the clock to the year 10,000,876 and pressed the red time button. Now many of you non-time-traveling types may not know this, but a well known time scientist, who shall remain nameless… stated that humans would all be dead by the year 10,000,875 and most time machine builders took this to heart. Thus, no time clock is able to go past the year 10,000,875 and Monet’s ship would explode in a fiery blaze in the middle of the time plane and his murdered carcass would never be discovered! Never! AHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!

So you can imagine my surprise when his time machine showed up two days later, Monet good as new, bloody happy to see ol’ Ricardo. At first I was taken to muttering prayers in multiple languages, even Esperanto, until Monet squealed and I shut up. It turns out I had forgotten – Monet’s battery was dead on his time slider console! That meant that any entered date would, much like old Apple Macintosh systems, reset to the date of the creator’s birth as an in-joke to nerds everywhere! Hence, the time machine had reset to April 5, 1961, and taken the slider back, dead body in tow, to that time, where Monet found it right after his time slider was stolen by his identical cyborg twin, who wanted me dead due to some gambling debts acquired in the 1870s. Another story, to be sure, as it apparently was caused by some future self, as I don’t remember any cyborgs I crushed at baccarat.

Oh, and then Monet handed me the two hundred pounds with a magical picture of a topless Audrey Hepburn, which, upon another viewing, made Monet weep like a nun. Blubberboat.

[1]pounds: like American dollars, but much, much more valuable; this is similar to the American dollar’s relation to its Canadian counterpart. Monet and I are betting a good deal of our life savings…about $12,000 apiece.

 
 
2002-3-31   BTCFOS19thCCJPMFE

Monet had managed to use his atrophied space powers to turn his car into a giant bird shaped car, which struggled in the air for a half a second until its engine stalled and it turned back to normal, pinning the Captain by his shoulder to the concrete. He called me on his mobile, screaming like a choir boy, demanding I “drop whatever I was doing, and jet right over to remove this blundering bucket of bolts from on top of [him].” After the swearing subsided, and the Captain lapsed into a lovingly timed coma, I turned off my own BTCFOS19thCCJPMFE phone (which rings by playing a bar from “God Save the Queen”), and made haste.

To make a long story extremely brief (as I have another story to finish), the Captain had to be rushed to a floating emergency room fortress, died for two minutes, grabbed a nurse during surgery (while drugged, as if by instinct), got hit over the head by the EKG the nurse was holding, died for four more minutes, and finally came back to life long enough to fire a few subordinates before lapsing back into his coma, where he is now.

Now, back to my story about Louis Quick and the 1920s girl.

Louis and the girl were still in the room sixteen hours later after I came back from two speakeasies, a girl on each arm. My accent had charmed them, they claimed, but I knew it was the special BTCFOS19thCCJPMFE issue pheromone dispenser they issue all male BTCFOS19thCCJPMFE agents at the BTCFOS19thCCJPMFE academy. According to the tiny bottle I had used in it, I smelled like a “6 foot Latino man with sharp, dark eyes, and a winning smile.” I felt like a thirty-inch tall albino waitress, but what the men see and what the women see are different things, and it seemed to be working nicely.

Nonetheless, Louis was taking his sweet damned time wooing this ancient girl, who would be dead or wrinkly in our time anyways. So, releasing my arms from my own girls, I rapped sharply twenty five times on the door to their room, just like the government organization BTCFOS19thCCJPMFE contracted to deliver coffee, Omega-6, did (sometimes they would just come in through the windows, black armor and weapons ready, hot espresso stored in their canteens, coffee mugs slung over their shoulders like grenades).

But, as the strength of my raps increased, and the door shattered (as it often did with Omega-6), I was surprised to find the room empty, and Louis nowhere to be seen. I did find a note on the desk, however, which read:

“Dear Ricardo, my old friend, Delilah here is just about the most wonderful girl I’ve ever met. She’s dapper, suave, keen, swell, groovy, awesome, tubular, fine, and faithworthy. I’ve gone to meet her father to ask for her hand in marriage! Wish me luck, Ricardo. I’ll just catch the next time bus back to the future! Delightfully yours, Louis Quick”

Of all the damned foolish things to do! Quick probably only liked the girl because she was some kind of pushy Asian. Her father was likely going to ram a radioactive cooling rod right through stupid Quick’s breast! And on top of that, despite what he claims, there is no damned ‘time bus.’ He would essentially be stuck in this horrid time forever!

After quickly losing my own girls (pushed them forcibly into alleys), I called on my time traveling companion Susanne, which was named after another lovely young woman I once had known that flew through space and was equipped with a long range mining laser and three micro missile launchers, each containing four dozen SRMs, capable of being launched simultaneously. Zanzibar joined me in the cockpit. We set course for the waypoint most likely to be the home of Delilah’s father’s house, which happened to be a remote location in Alaska, in the middle of a military stronghold. I happily zoomed in and used my swarm missiles and 21st century know-how (plus some know-how I picked up from the 32nd and 45th centuries) to overrun their tommy guns and trench warfare. I burst into the building, Zanzibar the space monkey on my shoulder, and made my way to Delilah’s father’s home…

Well, I was quite disappointed to find out that her father wasn’t in the military base; just some steam powered walking tanks. I did a more accurate search and it turned out he lived in Chicago, where we had just come from. I rearmed at a nearby space fortress and set course back to Chicago, where I readied myself for the fight of a lifetime. I kicked in the door to his home, where I found him…sitting in his living room, his daughter at his side and young Quick standing near them…I did a quick check with Mindy’s targeting system…no weapons in the building…no robots or monsters…no time traveling enemies whatsoever…and everyone was staring at me as if I were the crown prince in a floral arrangement. I quickly disarmed Mindy and muttered an “oh, terribly sorry.”

Quick explained that I should probably leave, and that he would call me later. I was so surprised by the lack of violence and danger that I nodded in agreement and marched out. It wasn’t until I had traveled back to my own time that I realized Quick had no way of calling me and that, without a time beacon, he was quite stuck, as I was worried he would be. I am quite afraid of what George Quick will have to say. An assistant of his contacted me this morning to “wish me a happy Easter” and then recommended I become religious, as elder Quick wished to meet with me.

Eep.

 
 
2002-3-21   BTCFOS19thCCJPMFE

I was strolling past a corner store the other day and was shocked to see my old drinking friend, Louis Quick. Younger brother, and, through some complications, uncle to George Quick, the multimillionaire real estate king, Louis had proven many times his fast car, faster temper, and even faster hands as we drank our way from bar to bar, pausing every once in awhile to get burrs out of my mustache, tripping over homeless people that tried to take our wallets, and generally singing old English sailor songs entirely too loud. The last time I had seen young Quick was at the bottom of a tiger pit, where genetically enhanced Zulu warriors had thrown him, after our tipsy fun had led us into the future and a major war between the Zulu cyber warriors and the religious zealots of Kurg, who opened a coffee shop in Zulu territory, against the will of their Zulu god, one Glen Faraday Sr. He wasn’t really a god, just a misguided optometrist who had wondered into the coffee shop as the Zulus speared the beatniks that had taken up residence inside. He bore a striking resemblance to Buddy Holly, so they made him their king and god. The genome Zulus weren’t what you’d call intelligent in their society-altering changes, but they were decisive.

Anyways, Louis and I caught up on recent events…my troubles with Capt. Monet, the latest rides and attractions in the pleasure dimension, my acquisition of the strange alien telepathic monkey, Zanzibar, the failed rescue of his brother/nephew George from the future, etc. Louis told me of his travels over the Earth, the strange foods and women he had sampled, the fantastic mountains he had climbed, the cold realization that his brother and nephew George was actually an alien freedom fighter, and so forth.

As we finished our scotch and whiskeys (a rather atrocious, but effective drink), Louis suggested that we traipse through the nearest time portal to head to the 1920s to acquire booze the way it should be: that is, illegally. Once he explained the American prohibition (and I got over my giggling), we set off for the Psychic High School Time and Space labs. After removing the small brick of C4 from underneath the ‘activate’ button on the time panel (and winking to Louis as I removed the note from the Dimensional kids, which was a line of Tolstoy lovingly scripted followed by the words “FUCK YOU, TIME BITCHES”), we stepped into the portal…

…and out onto the streets of 1923 Chicago, Illinois. We promptly hopped into a cab, hopped out of the cab, got into a knife fight in an alley, and waltzed our way into a ritzy nightclub, complete with beautiful blonde woman singer in a red dress. She cooed at us until Louis turned red like her dress, and she invited us back to her room. But when I got there it turned out she had only invited Louis, and I stormed off to find my OWN girl to have crazy 1920s sex with.

I will finish this later. Monet called me on his mobile and he is stuck under his car for some reason.

 
 
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