TIME DOUCHE CH. 1 - STAND AND BE SEEN

TIME DOUCHE CH.1 - STAND AND BE SEEN

by MJ Heiser

With a blinding flash of insight, you understand how this whole thing can be twisted to your advantage. Maybe you are the kind of moron who mistakes a time machine for a shower, but that happened because any enclosed space found in a tiled room in a 21st century American home is easily assumed by the people of your time to be a shower. Designers are constantly coming up with avant garde new interpretations of ways to make yourself clean; how could anyone anticipate that this thing could be a time machine, after all?

You think about this for just a second longer. Yes, it was an easy mistake to make for people of your time. What would this thing look like to the people of Revolutionary France?

A big, daffy grin overspreads your face. This is a bad omen to the people who know you, but you haven't gotten the memo that your grins are signs of coming disaster. "Nubleman, I have a plan," you say, and to your own ears, your voice carries the excited certainty and rightness of a big-shot A-list celebrity on the silver screen, getting ready to face down zombies or aliens or even the US Congress.

"You have a -- a what?" Nubleman asks. Maybe he's gotten the memo.

"Play along with me," you say, pulling a dirty, roughly-woven shirt over your head. It manages to just barely cover your privates. You don't have time to put on any of the other elaborate clothing of a bygone era. Somebody should have introduced these people to the wonder of sweatpants, you think giddily to yourself.

"What the hell are you talking about? You're in 18th century FRANCE! This is no time for playing along with anything!" Nubleman stammers.

There's no time for discussion. You step out of the strange titanium enclosure, puffing up as much confidence as you can, and fix your gaze on the approaching riders. It's obvious that they'd finally noticed the shiny foreign object while you'd been fussing with this strange shirt you're now wearing -- a shirt that barely protects your delicate 21st century flesh from the unexpectedly brisk breeze. The last thing they expected was to see anyone emerge from this thing, and that anyone includes you.

"Merde!” shouts one of the riders.

"Greetings, Earth people!" you announce.

"What the blazes are you doing, you idiot?!" Nubleman bellows.

If you'd had the presence of mind to emerge from the time machine speaking French, you may have survived the experience. French aristocracy may have spoken English, but most of the peasantry now taking over the country did not. Unfortunately, you started speaking in a strange tongue, and the shock of that combined with your abrupt appearance and Nubleman's disembodied shrieks of outrage are just too much for the imaginations of the three men in front of you. They scream and fire on you in superstitious horror. Despite their fright, their aim is perfect.

All I wanted was chicken, you think to yourself as blood leaks from your perforated body. Fortunately you're dead before those dull bayonet blades can reach you.

THE END

Oops...RETURN TO CHAPTER 1

TIME DOUCHE CH. 1 - MOVE THAT MACHINE

TIME DOUCHE CH.1 - MOVE THAT MACHINE

By Tomara Armstrong

“Are you getting dressed?” the transmitter buzzes.

“Uh…” you fumble and dump the contents of the drawer onto the floor. The blue-suited men on horseback haven’t noticed you, but they’re getting closer. You stir the clothing around, confused. “Uh, Thomas… Is this a dress?”

“It’s a workman’s smock,” Thomas Nubleman spits, “with coordinating breeches.”

“Breeches?” you drop the clothing and shudder. He has obviously put way too much thought into this. “I can’t wear that. I’m pretty sure I’m allergic.”

The horsemen are drawing nearer. While Nubleman attempts to exhaust his vocabulary bashing you, you decide to abandon the whole “getting dressed” idea and focus your thoughts on moving the time machine.

You quickly push out the door and begin to survey the landscape. The earth is soft from a recent rain and the breeze tickles your nether regions. There are a few trees in the area, and if you can somehow move the machine closer to one, it might shield it from view.

“I can do this,” you breathe.

“What’s the plan then?” Nubleman’s voice carries from inside the time machine. You left the communicator mingling with the breeches on the floor.

“I can do this.” The machine looks really sturdy, but you have a gym membership, and occasionally you go. Occasionally is, actually, rarely… never. The chances you can move this thing are highly unlikely, but what the hell. You crack your knuckles, loosen your shoulders and neck, and give the machine a good shove.

Nothing.

You glance over your shoulder to check on the progress of the men on horseback, dig your feet into the wet ground, and try again. Sliding in the mud, you grunt and it give all you’ve got.

Nothing. It’s built like a brick shithouse.

With a quick glance over your shoulder, you take several steps back, staring down the beast. You’re not afraid… much.

Barreling toward the machine, you lose footing and slam into its side. It wobbles—almost tipping, but the wet ground suctions it back in place.

“Ugh!” Throwing yourself onto the ground, you kick the damn thing in full tantrum mode.

“What’s going on?” the communicator buzzes. “Has disaster been averted?”

The irritating voice of Thomas Nubleman brings you back to reality. You roll onto your stomach and look for the horsemen. Something has gotten their attention and they are headed your way.

Think fast, think fast.

You roll around in the mud, covering yourself as the horses move closer. On your feet, you strike a pose. If you don’t move, you’re fairly sure they won’t see you.

The three horses move dangerously close, but you hold your stance, barely breathing. One of the soldiers dismounts and starts slowly toward your position.

They don’t see me. I am invisible. I am earth and air. They don’t see me.

“Qu'est-ce que c'est?” One of the soldiers on horseback says as he points at you.

“C'est un cochon couvert de merde,” the other spits, and they both share a laugh, most likely at your expense. You try not to smile—keeping very still.

No, they don’t see me.

The dismounted guard approaches you with musket in hand. The bayonet is extended and reflects the sunlight directly into your eyes. You’re blinking erratically when he shoves your right shoulder, and you stumble, “Votre nom, le cochon?”

They see me. Shit.

“Shit! Uh…” you search your repository of useless information. You took French in school, but somehow you’ve buried that under the catalog of movie quotes and trashy pick up lines. “Um… Les chinois et les chinoises ne sont pas grands.” Found it!

You smile.

He doesn’t.

With a swift move of his hand, his bayonet pierces you through the left collarbone. You fall to the ground, crying for your mommy.

When you finally open your eyes, all three men are standing over you—blades mere inches from your chest. You hear Nubleman still droning on about chronotons over the communicator in the time machine, while his French friends turn you into a pin cushion of temporal debris.

Ouch doesn’t even cover it.

THE END

Oops...RETURN TO CHAPTER 1

TIME DOUCHE CH. 1 - IT'S ABOUT TIME

Time Douche - Ch. 1 - It's About Time

By John Elrod II

“What is your life worth? Hmm? This is a rhetorical question we are forced to ask ourselves constantly. Though there can be no concrete answer, we still ask it. What does it even mean? Is that how one measures a life? With dollars? Of course not. What do we use? Hmm? Yes: time. Our lives are measured in the time encompassing them and the impact we make on this time. It is absurd to use any other measurement for a life. 'One needs time for everything.' Does anyone know who said that? Eighteenth Century French philosopher, Voltaire. Of course, he was referring to some form of evolution, but--"

"Oh! I know this one! He was Dracula, right?" you try to interject some humor into the room, but your joke falls flat, as Thomas Nubleman, this evening's host, takes the question seriously.

"No. Voltaire was not Dracula. Anyway, time..."

Nubleman continues his soliloquy on time -- nobody is actually listening -- and you've just about had enough of this insanity. Your thoughts have grown desperate.

I get dragged to this freaking dinner--by the way, where's the fucking food? Some dinner without morsel one--and this boring bastard has been droning on for twenty doggone minutes about temporal shifts and chronotonal ballasts and aaaaah! I just want some chicken! If he doesn't shut his mouth soon...

You turn your focus back to him.

"... Although we often think of time as its own entity, in fact, time and space are intertwined. They exist on the same plane. This means, theoretically, when we move through space, we are also moving through time. What does this mean? Hmm? If we can learn to move through space, we will move through time, as well..."

You don't have thoughts, anymore, as much as you have threats.

If this motherfucker doesn't give me some goddamn chicken...

He continues.

"... thus..."

Oh, he did not just bust a 'thus'! That's it. I have to leave.

In agitation, you quickly search your surrounding area to find any excuse to leave. Then, you spot the wine: a beautiful Merlot. You'll wear it well. With a swift motion of your arm, a nearly full glass of wine splashes onto your shirt.

"Aw geez! Aw geez!" you exclaim. "Geez, I'm sorry. I just was so engrossed in what you were saying, I made a complete mess of myself. Can I use your restroom?" They should invent an award to give you for this performance.

Nubleman, visibly perturbed -- although, he kind of always looks like that -- responds, "But of course! Just up the stairs, there. Feel free to take a shirt of mine from the closet, too." His offer is accompanied by a forceful push to your back, as he turns and begins his rambling, once more, "The reason I've asked you all here, under such secrecy, is because I am planning a trip to France, but..." he continues, but you've finally managed to get outside of earshot.

You've got to hand it to this guy. As pompous as he is, his house is exquisite. An oak banister lines a marble staircase, and all of the windows appear to be complemented with silk curtains. The only unsightly thing about the entire place is all the clocks. This guy really wants to showcase his hard-on for all things time. Your eyes can't wander three feet across the wall without running against some intricate timepiece -- the higher the intricacy the higher the price, most likely. Within the bathroom, you're visually accosted by its stance in complete opposition to the foyer. There's nearly nothing decorative about this room. Everything is stainless steel and sterile, still with a shine but somewhat subdued. Then you're almost shocked into words by the stark contrast of what you seen in front of you to literally every other inch of this bathroom.

"Wow, look at that shower."

Your astonishment is warranted. This shower seems to have been crafted from one piece of solid titanium alloy. It stands at a looming eight feet tall, enclosed with what has to be, at least, two-inch thick two-way mirrors. Upon closer examination, the door opens automatically, on touch. With a soft swish, you're presented with the view of a convoluted interior, housing numerous buttons and knobs, but the most intriguing feature is centered squared right at you: a chair. This is no ordinary shower chair your grandmother might use for bathing. This is hard, cold, reflective metal. This is not built for comfort. This is built for business. This is Captain Kirk's shower chair. In back of the chair are several compartments. You open the largest of them.

"Clothes. Weird clothes. I guess he did say I could wear his clothes. It couldn't hurt, if I use his badass shower."

Naked and staring at your shivering reflection in the contraption's door, you touch it. The wind from the door's movement gives you chills. Second thoughts race through your mind. Maybe you shouldn't. What? You're standing naked in this man's bathroom; a man who promised you chicken, and gave you nothing but a headache. You're doing this. With that, you lob yourself into the chair.

*WHUSH*

The door whizzes shut, as a low, ominous hum grows rapidly into an angry whir. Lights flicker, a screen on the backside of the door illuminates your face, and your heartbeat quickens. In an attempt at calmness, you focus your attention on the cold steel seat sucking the heat from your exposed skin. It is to no avail, as you only grow more frightened with each passing beep. Beep. Beep. In a frantic haze, you lash out at everything in sight, pressing button after button. Nothing. Just as you think to scream: silence--darkness. Nothing remains but the illumination of the screen to capture your momentary relief. Did you break it?

No.

The hum returns, this time growing faster to the whir. The whir, this time, escalating to a pulsating roar. Faster, the beep dramatically crescendos into a sustained tone, and, after a tremendous flash, the bathroom is vacant -- and showerless.

------

In a blink, silence returns. You're sweaty and tired, but you can read the screen glaring you in the face. It reads: open. You press it, opening the door.

"There's no way this is a shower." You state one of the most obvious statements of the obvious to have ever been stated.

Again, your relief is short-lived, as you realize there is a breeze entering the doorway. Upon standing, you're presented with the view of a confusing exterior: a bucolic countryside. You promptly close the door, and return to your seat.

"Okay... okay..." you exhale.”Okay... think this out. He's an inventor... geez, what was he talking about? Dracula. Wine... shit! Traveling! It's a teleporter!" Why this seems to comfort you is a mystery.

"I've been teleported somewhere. I'm probably just outside his house." Ignoring the fact that this man's house is located in Boston, you open the door and step out. After a quick look around, you return -- closing the door.

"Okay... not in Boston. Where am I?" You rub your temples and slowly come to a stop.

Sheepishly, you scoff, "No... noooooo... it's not possible." Once more opening the door, you look outside. "Oh, god."

You close the door and wonder if the correct time to piss yourself is now, or five minutes ago. Just then, you hear a voice.

"You imbecile!" it chirps.

Deciding now is probably the best time to do the piss yourself thing, you reply, "Aaaaah!"

"Oh, do shut up." Pomposity oozes from a speaker over your left shoulder.

The voice is that of Mr. Nubleman. It seems he included a communication system in his design.

"Thomas?" At that moment, that question carries more hope than you had ever imagined could be felt for the possibility of speaking to Thomas Nubleman.

"Yes, you moron. You've stolen my time machine -- and why are you naked?" Thomas has apparently found your clothes.

"So, I was right. I'm in a different time? When am I?" your voice cracks with a childish whimper, "And how are you talking to me?"

Thomas' reply seems to acknowledge that he heard you, but he may also just be rambling again. It's difficult to tell with this guy. "You nincompoop. You can't just traipse through the space/time continuum, without leaving some remnants of having been there. You've created a wormhole, which is also how I'm speaking to you. Upon your return, you will travel through that same wormhole, thus, sealing it; however, since you took literally no precaution in this little daytrip of yours, you've left temporal debris. These chronotons have been disturbed, and they must be allowed to settle. Attempting to return, now, would result in catastrophic damage to the machine and most likely the continuum. Luckily, chronotons work fast; you can return within the hour. So, you must hide the machine, and yourself, during that time."

You do not respond.

"Do it!"

Still, you do not respond.

"Answer me!"

Three men in long blue coats and funny hats are riding by on horseback. They haven't seen the machine . . . yet.

"There are people here." you whisper.

"What? Whatever you do, do not come into contact with them. You are not prepared for this, as I am." he just can't avoid the condescension. "You are in Eighteenth Century France --"

"The time of Voltaire?" you interrupt. For some reason you’re proud that you've remembered this.

"Shut up, you fool. It is 1789, to be exact -- after Voltaire, before you just have to interrupt me, again. They are on the cusp of the French Revolution. Your actions could have monumental impact."

"Why would you be going to such a pivotal, volatile time?" You prepare yourself for his indignation.

"Why would I--WHY?! I prepared myself for years to take man's fairly innocuous maiden voyage through time! A feat you've stolen from me! You expect me to explain to you why?! Just you listen to me, and bring my machine back without fucking history up." His breathing is audible, even through time.

You pause for a moment to provide some space for clarity. "What do I do? Should I stay here? They are guaranteed to see me. Should I get out and try to move the machine before that happens?" You're beginning to panic again.

"Are you dressed? First, get dressed. Then, pop this speaker out -- it's portable -- and stick me in your pocket. Next, I can't believe I'm saying this to the idiot who thought my time machine was a shower -- that's what it was, right? You thought it was a shower? Moron. That wasn't even my bathroom -- Make a judgment call." He actually left it in your hands: your hands that had, indeed, mistaken a time machine for a shower.

Will You...

A. Stay in the time machine, guaranteed to be seen, and deal with what happens then?

B. Exit the time machine and attempt to move it, without being seen?

Rock the time machine back-and-forth, letting it fall on its side, utilizing its tubular shape and your position on a hill to roll away?

THE SEASON 2.5 TRAILER!

Season 2.5 starts next week!

That's right, we're jumping right into this one.

Want a quick glimpse of what to expect? Check out the trailer!