Chapter 64

In the thirteen or so billion years that the universe had existed, a surprising number of the fundemental physical properties had found portions manifested in a living being. Naturally, (this probably being the most accurate usage of that word) neither the sentient being or the property had any idea of it. Instead they simply woke up on the wrong side of a particular dimensional flux and found themselves an integral part of the conscious of some creature. Even more inexplicable, a number of these inadvertent incarnations were as cats.

This might explain why Elron, Edith Sipowitz's thirty-seven pound calico and the physical manifestation of gravity, kept managing to knock the Hummel figurines off the top of the curio cabinet.

Of all of the substantiations, Time was probably the most fortunate of the lot, having incarnated as Ralph J. Hinkel, a man with a penchant for on-time meetings and an seemingly innate understanding of railway timetables. When not keeping up with the sloppy commuter schedules, Ralph busied himself calculating insurance actuary tables and dreamed.

It should also be noted that had anything in the universe actually been aware of the fact that the fundamentals of existence occasionally took a side trip into the conscious planes, a great many of the trite sentiments attributed to these would have been settled once and for all.

In the case of Time/Ralph Hinkel, Time had never "marched on". In fact, Time often tended to dally or stroll having long since prior worked out the distance and speed required to arrive and taken the proper precautions to arrive correctly. But if anyone had honestly asked Time/Ralph, particularly after that one office holiday party where "Blotto" had mixed up a "special" batch of his eggnog, and had that particular temporal student managed to hide away in one of Ralph's closets when he had returned to his one room apartment in a five floor walk-up, they would have learned the truth about Time's preferred mode of locomotion. Time was particularly fond of the Charleston.

In the years after Ralph Hinkel's departure, and the return of that facet of Time to the universe, this would still occasionally manifest itself in the occasional hyper-dimensional fluctuation, which confused many of the leading theoretical temporal physics minds, and was simply dubbed, the Foxtrot Effect.

Naturally (this probably being the least accurate usage of that word) has absolutely no bearing on the story what-so-ever, except to note that it is later and possibly explain the meaning of the phrase, "Time sambas on."

"Ah, Bob, welcome back."

Bob winced when he heard the artificially pleasant tones of the regional director. It was the same sort of uncomfortable feeling one got when trying out one of you dear Aunt Mabel's eight times blue ribbon Turkish Delights only to find out that the poor dear had once again confused the powdered sugar with Borax. Bob consoled himself that at least there wouldn't be any knelt prayers offered to Porcalinus.

"Yes, sir. Sorry about that. I was unexpectedly called out-of-town. I'll try not to let that happen again, and I'm reasonably certain that the parties..."

Bob's boss' boss held up a silencing hand. "No excuses needed, Bob. We simply filed it against your accrued vacation time and garnished your wages for the balance. It happens all the time."

Bob tried his best to smile back. Fortunately, years of post-grad had taught him that many office supplies were edible, so Avey and Margie had no idea how little money they really had. His temporary partner had offered to help out, but Bob was fairly certain that his bank would have a difficult time converting Trianglic Pu into something more exchangeable, or at least less explosive. The director motioned Bob toward an empty conference room.

"Bob," his boss said as the door closed behind them, "you're a good employee. The last few sales programs you led have brought in fantastic returns. Remember the Kotar account?"

Bob winced inwardly. Kotar had peaked back in the early '70s against the Masked Molerat and Weaselboy, but had been on a nearly endless slide since then, bottoming out as one of the tattered denizens of a traveling carnival's Haunted Castle ride. For five years he'd jump out from behind a screen and unleash his 1000 Amp electro-blast at the yokels in the Faraday cages.

Or at least that's what he did the first week and a half. After that he just shuffled out across the carpeting, grunted in a moderately annoyed fashion and discharged the static charge he had built up. Usually he also read a magazine or ate a sandwich.

Recently, he had a rebirth of sorts when a cable network started re-running old Molerat and Weaselboy cartoon episodes. They were a huge hit with the pre-school set, and soon the royalty checks started rolling back in.

Bob's task was to make the now aging Sparkplug Flarepants more kid friendly. The ads were a complete flop with the under seven demo, but huge with hipster college kids, and soon Hot Topic picked up the distribution rights.

Kotar celebrated by setting fire to his old carnival trailer. Unfortunately, while he was still inside.

His widow was as understanding as she was rich.

Bob hated the account because it kept reminding him of the future. Being an Evil Genius has it's perks, but it has a lousy 401k.

"Bob?" His manager had a concerned look.

"Sorry, just thinking about that project. It was lot of fun." Bob lied.

"Glad to hear that, Bob. In fact it's brought us a lot of new work."

Bob silently winced again.

"...but I've got a few of the junior folks doing the grunt work this time. They could use your insight, but I thought it might be good for you to take a more executive role."

A tiny, paranoid little alarm went off in Bob's head. "Uh, sure."

"Bob? Look, I know that things have been a little crazy for you lately. I even hear that some of this is starting to effect you post-grad work. Like I said, you're a valuable employee, Bob, but I know how important your studies are to you, and let's be honest, your success means our success. I shouldn't mention this, but we would have never gotten the Banana Carfee deal if it wasn't for the mind control ray Mentos built for his postgrad, and Dt. Proteum managed to get us a huge bonus from the RNC after they passed the postmortem voter reformation act last year."

"I never expected so many undead would vote Republican."

"I believe they prefer the term 'metabolically challenged' now. Still, our industry thrives on the sort of bold, outside the chamber thinking that folks like you excel at. It's why we hire so many chaos advocates. Bob, I'd like you to consider taking a leave of absence for a few months and really spend some time on that degree. Come in, say, once or twice a week for meetings and consultations, but otherwise really focus on the task at hand."

Bob sat quietly for a moment. On one hand this was a golden opportunity handed to him. His boss trusted and valued his efforts so much that they were willing to let him go off and follow his degree.

On the other hand, his bank account was getting precariously low and getting an involuntary leave of absence wasn't really the best thing at the moment.

"I'm not sure what to say." Bob said earnestly. He had no idea what to say about the offer.

The director, simply smiled and waited for his answer.

Obviously, Bob was not going to get a lot of time to think it over.

Eddy woke with a start a full minute before his alarm crackled to life. With a swipe of his hand, several O'Reilly tomes slid off the clock and joined their brothers strewn on the floor. It was six. His interview was in three hours.

Eddy sat up in bed and tried to control his breathing. His hands were still shaking even as the lingering remnants of the nightmare faded. He staggered to his feet, partly tripping on the half open textbooks and binders that filled his bedroom. There was no need to analyze these dreams, he knew exactly what they were about.

He was back then. Back before.

Before he had gotten the interview, before he had started the web site design course, back before he had even gotten the apartment in Muncie, it was back then. When he weighed twenty pounds less and had far shorter hair.

Back when he was the Ferrite Chef.

His nightmares were the same. He was back studying under Mephisto, in his home beneath the towering redwoods. Mephisto was the same over demanding bastard he always had been, expecting nothing but absolute perfection with not a moments rest.

"Your blood", the old Asian said in his thick Greek accent, "it must sing to you of the cuisine. There is no time for the distraction or dawdle only the sauce and the sizzle."

But then it was the same, It repeated through Eddy's mind once again.

"You" the wizened old chef said, "you have unfinished business, yes?"

No, Eddy thought, those days are behind me.

"Kopros! You find me, take all my secrets and then erase me like bad Saganaki, and think you just walk away? Kuánwàng! I have given you power and you ignore it? What do you fear?"

No! Eddy thought violently as images of the Facility raged through his head. He knew what could happen. At best, he'd go back, at worst, he'd simply disappear.

"Bah! Baka! Is that all you fear? You are not a worthy student." the old man raised a skillet in one hand and an eight inch chefs knife in the other they crossed above his head, his hands blurred in a flurry of movement and ingredients leaving a nearly perfect cream puff floating before him. Raw power glowed off of the quick pastry. "Ah..." the old chef said, "you know what this is, eh?"

The air pulsed around the puff, Edward did indeed know what that was and knew precisely how to make it. He couldn't though. After the danish incident, he no longer trusted his skills.

Even the dreamed memory of the frying pan striking his skull caused Eddy... no Edward... to flinch. "You became distracted, you didn't finish and so you were punished. Go back and finish!"

Eddy shook his head to clear the old man's scream. It had been the same dream, every night for the past month. Now it was starting to invade his daydreams.

"ALRIGHT!" Edward yelled to his phantoms. "I'll go back."

He picked up the phone and dialed the first of two phone calls.

And finally, Listeners to Boise AM KNWS, the areas only Latvian radio station were disappointed that the weekly Lawrence Welk Poetry Hour was interrupted by what authorities are declaring "radio pirates". The message, broadcast at 3PM announced that residents should fear the return of Professor M and accepted credit for the resent shortage of oatmeal to Boise stores. Authorities have made no statement as to the veracity of the claim and have only stated that they were previously unaware that there was an oatmeal shortage at all. While the FCC has said that they do plan to look into the illegal broadcast eventually, sources are quoted as saying that they have much better ways to waste their time.

*click*

The echoes from he TV were the oly sounds that filled the empty warehouse for several minutes.

Professor M sighed, considering that his mind was currently trapped in a 1940s flatbed Ford, it sounded more like his air breaks needed adjustment. "Well, that could have gone better."

"You know boss," Lenny said trying to muster the greatest amount of diplomatic skill he had, "I know that we're just hired help and all but maybe we could help you get a little more up-to-date."

Professor M's headlights glares ominously. "Are you impugning that my plans are flawed? I'll have you know that every single plan was a masterstroke of pure genius. By halting the supply of oatmeal to the city, I have caused thousands of children to go hungry, throwing mothers into convolutions of panic. Thereby sending the men of the city into a maternally distracted furor, allowing me to easily take command of this city and broadcast my demands over the most influential radio station."

Tony cast a cautionary glance toward Lenny, "but, kids don't eat oatmeal anymore, and that news station was sold back in the eighties."

"Look, boss," Lenny said quickly, trying to diffuse an already bad situation. "we're just suggesting that maybe it might be a good idea to try and brush up on the latest technology and news is all."

Professor M idled over the thought. "Yes I suppose there might be some merit in that. Upon reflection, those untraceable delays we introduced to the municipal trolley system also did not have the desired result, did they?"

"If there wasn't those five car pile ups on I-90 that day, I'm sure we would have made at least one of the traffic reports."

"And should I presume that my plan to hold up several of the All Night Tellers was similarly foiled?"

"No Boss, we just felt that holding up an ATM at gunpoint really wasn't that good an idea."

"And we didn't want to be on America's dumbest criminals" Lenny mumbled.

"Yes. Perhaps some additional research in these modern times is indeed necessary. I appreciate the advice, Leonard. Now quickly, bring to me an encyclopedia salesman. We will ransom him for a complete edition. Quickly, for we have much to learn!"

"There's an understatement."

"Well, how did he find out!?" General Thompson bellowed as he stormed into his office at CSOC, the Canadian Special Operations Center.

"We're looking into that, but it's difficult for us..."

"No excuses Colonel!"

"Sir, with all due respect... he is the President."

Thompson stood, bristling. "Colonel, you, of all people, should know just how dangerous that is."

"Yes sir."

Thompson backed off, This was not the time for accusations or blame, it was the time for clear thought. He took his seat behind his desk and massaged his forehead. "So, now that we know he knows, what do we do?"

"Well, Sir, we still believe that the alien in Boise is critical. It's the one thing they have that we don't."

"Damn sneaky of those Yanks. I wonder how they did it."

"Sir?" Colonel Foley raised an eyebrow.

"They managed to not only locate intelligent alien life, but somehow convinced it to join them. Who knows what sort of anti-Canadian propaganda they're feeding it or the type of power it's turning over to them."

"There's simply no saying, sir."

"So how do we plan to capture the alien?"

"We tried the direct approach already, Sir, but were intercepted."

Thompson sat, burying his nose in templed hands as he stared at Foley. Foley heard the unspoken command for more details. "The alien was being transported by the American RUA forces and was being held in a warehouse outside of Boise. We quickly surrounded the facility and met some initial resistance. For reasons we're not sure about, the Americans decided to release the alien."

"Did we attempt capture."

"No Sir, the alien was retrieved by the local Meta, a 'The Grayhound'. Here's the information we have on him."

Thompson leafed through the folder. "Hmm. Interesting background. Martial Artistry, gadgets, bassist for Steamed Fresca? I used to listen to their stuff in college. What about his physical abilities?"

"That we're not certain about. I'd note that neither are the Americans. His sidekick Puppyboy has a very impressive range of abilities, from super strength and strong deductive skills, to animal telepathy and pin point accuracy with a wide array of weaponry. It's far easier to get information regarding him. His docket is in the back."

"Very impressive, and you say he's the sidekick?"

"Yes Sir."

"So this 'The Grayhound' must be incredibly powerful." Thompson said with a carefully measured tone.

"Yes Sir. With only twelve gunships and thirty four armored carriers in the area, we decided not to engage."

"I'd have done the same, Foley. It was the right choice."

"Thank you, Sir."

Thompson closed the folder and slid it forward. He drummed his fingers against it as he thought. "So, to get the alien, we're going to need to come up with someone equally powerful."

"Actually, Sir," Foley said uncomfortably," we're going to need a group."

"A group?" Thompson echoed.

"We've heard reports that another team of metas is trying to locate and secure the alien. We can only presume that they've been hired by the Americans for the same reasons."

"Who are they, Foley?"

"They go by the name, 'The Y Guys'. Our American sources claim that they're rogue, but we believe them to be deep agents using that cover to throw us off. They're not being very subtle, really. Our last report had them loading up on a large number of... Oh, that's just not right."

"What's not right, Foley?"

"According to this, they've been loading up on adult party favors for what they've been describing as the 'Danger Chamber'."

Thompson and Foley stared at each other for several seconds.

"And you say that they're working for the Americans?" Thompson asked.

"I can only hope it's part of their 'Don't ask, and for the love of all things holy, don't tell either' policy."

"Agreed." Thompson said, still not sure if "The Danger Chamber" was a club he'd once been to in Calgary while on a very aggressive period of shore leave. "Very good, Colonel. I trust our operatives are still in place?"

"Yes sir. Although it might be difficult for them to mobilize."

"Why is that, Foley?"

"Well,Sir, it's the holiday rush season, and we're offering a discount on the French Roast."

"Ah, I see. Fortunately, it's still early and we don't have to mobilize yet. Have the men prepare what they can. We'll move as soon as we have something more positive."

"Yes, Sir!" Foley snapped his salute and turned to leave.

"Oh, and Foley?"

"Sir?"

"Can you have them save a pound of the Christmas blend? We're having company over the holidays."

"Yes, Sir."

All great journeys begin and end the same way.

They begin with the well known "First Step". The daring, committed first action that starts a being on their way.

Slightly less widely acknowledged but just as well known is the final action, the Last Flush.

In Krullux's case it also came with a frustrated jiggling of the lock handle and several sharp words for the malfunctioning hand dryer.

Earth. It had to be Earth.

Still, this was the only way. He had tried the safe route, and failed, miserably. The time had come for a more hands on approach to "dealing" with his problems, regardless of the dangers.

"Uhm, Hey Kid? Kid!" A rather stringy looking Terran leaned over the counter waving. Krullux looked around the establishment for who the intended target of his unwanted attention might be. "Like you need to buy something if you like use the bathroom! It's for customers only and all."

Krullux again surveyed the establishment before turning his scalding gaze toward the minion. His carefully trimmed van dyke twitched slightly beneath his polished chrome skullcap. "I am not a child."

"Whatever, dude. Still gotta buy something."

Krullux's stomach decided upon a very bad time to remind him that he had misjudged the amount of time he would be traveling. "Very well, what is the smallest meal you provide?"

"Uhm, this?" The greasy youth indicated the item on the menu. Krullux nodded and waved.

"Like, it's $4.72"

Krullux stared angrily at the attendant.

"You have to pay before I can like get it."

"Oh, very well." Krullux pulled a small device from his pocket, he tapped a few buttons into it to determine what the local currency was, what it looked like, and the methods to replicate it. He examined the object in question carefully for a few seconds, and determined that the being behind the counter would easily be fooled by the item.

He then pressed a trigger button which irradiated a portion of the being's brain.

"I like hear and totally obey. Like for here or to go, Master?"

"To go will suffice." Krullux continued to examine the primitive currency. He would have to acquire some of these so that his future transactions could be less difficult.

The being proceeded to complete the order and slid it across the counter. "Like, have a nice day, Master."

Krullux reached up to the counter. Sadly these humans were far taller than his own statuesque height. The fact that on Doom, his statues were seldom to proper scale was conveniently forgotten. He exited the establishment munching on the bland foodstuffs and wondering what exactly he was supposed to do with this yellow, spongy rectangular object with large eyes and what appeared to be square pants.

These "humans" will indeed be a simple race to conquer.

JB, you know you can quit any time, right? You really don't have to do this.

Yeah, I know, but I don't mind, besides it's kind of fun.

Fun? You think this is fun?

Sure, why not? Look things were kind of dull before, even you admit that.

Yeah, but still, you have to admit, this is more than a little weird.

True, and maybe that's why I like it. Besides, there's no turning back now.

No, I guess not. Still, I'm sorry to get you involved in this.

Chris? Will you stop it already? Look I'm an adult. If I didn't want to be here, I would tell you.

You sure?

I'm sure.

Positive?

I'm positive.

Sure you're positive?

CHRIS!?

Ok, fine, but don't you think we ought to go out and patrol or something?

Probably. Phone's ringing.

McCovey and Reid photography, can you hold please? Thanks. So that's twenty boxes of calendars we need shipped out. Is the Subaru loaded up and ready?

Yep, Karl helped.

Figured. Think you can wrangle Myron into making sure you fill the shipping form out right this time and get the receipt?

That was once! A month ago!

And I'll let you forget about it?

When your brain dries up to a raisin.

You got it.

Or I beat you with a shovel.

Right again, off you go.

Fine. You know there is one thing. This is fine and all, and I'm really happy Sandy's business is taking off, but I do kinda wish things would pick up for us again.

Ha! Speak for yourself. Besides I don't think anything big will happen for a while. We've not heard boo. Now go, before the shipping joint closes.

Want anything while we're out?

Yes, you to fill up the car before you come back. Other than that, I'll call you if we need anything. Hi, thanks for holding, how can I help you?

Someone's been reading up. Right...

Will Edward climb back on the
evil pastry wagon, and not have
Chris cream his cheese?

What heroes does CSOC have in mind,
and will they still be willing if the
hockey strike ends?

Did Krullux want fries with that?

Absolutely none of these will probably be answered in the next thrilling episode we'll be waiting forever for...

Discourse of the Professor
or
Public M-eny

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