TIME DOUCHE CH. 4 - Betray Marie

TIME DOUCHE CH.4 - BETRAY MARIE

BY Mandy Ward

You look from the brutes to Marie, wondering if you really ought to defend her. After all, she seems ready to sleep with just about anyone who takes her fancy and certainly doesn’t care about the common folk, despite her intention to live as one of them. So what if she’s sexy and curvy and everything you like in a woman? Underneath it all, she’s still as sluttish and unfaithful as a camp follower.

“I’m glad you guys turned up,” you drawl. “I discovered this bitch lying in wait for Napoleon. I think she was going to murder him.”

Three of them look at her and she whimpers, but stands her ground. The fourth frowns. “It looks more like she’s trying to seduce you.”

“Of course she’s trying to seduce me. She’s attempting to leave this place alive.” You bluster a little, hoping they’ll take it for anger when all of a sudden you’re actually rather scared.

“Why would a woman like this want to murder Napoleon?” the fourth man asks.

Great. Trust one of them to have brains and brawn. You were trying to get them to arrest her and then you were going to wake Napoleon to come to her rescue, but you’ll have to spill the beans now. “She’s a member of the royal family. I mean, for God’s Sake, look at her; the bearing, the accent, the figure!”

Marie draws in a deep breath and, almost as one, the men’s eyes are drawn to her ample assets. Yes, that’s right. Go on, scream for help and watch Napoleon appear to find four men smirking at your chest.

But you realise that only two of the men are leering. The other two have drawn their swords and, with only a second’s pause, they lop the heads off the two drooling brutes. Then they both drop to their knees, their sword points grounded and heads bowed. “De la naissance à la mort, que nous servons notre reine,” the brainy one says softly.

From Birth to Death, we serve our Queen. The translation makes you shudder. So she’s not given up on her birthright after all.

The blood from the slaughtered men pools out around their bodies. Marie delicately steps away from it, holding her skirts out of the crimson liquid.

“Thank you, gentlemen. It is a relief to know that I can count on such loyalty still. You may rise.”

They stand up. “What do we do with him, your majesty?” the brainy one says.

“He saved Napoleon’s life today, but was about to force himself on my person,” she says, her head tilting back slightly as if she’d smelled something rotten. “That is against the law and is punishable by death; but for the act of saving My Love’s life and returning him to me, I reward him with a quick death rather than being drawn and quartered.”

“Oh now, hang on! You were coming onto me, not the other way round,” you protest loudly as they advance towards you.

“What’s going on?” Napoleon emerges, chest bare and blinking sleep from his eyes. “Marie, is there a problem? Why are two of my men dead?”

Her lovely eyes go wide and her bottom lip trembles before she flies to his side, ignoring the blood that splashes up her skirts in her haste to reach him. “Oh Napoleon! This . . .this . . .thug tried to force himself on me!”

Lying bitch. You think fast, trying to come up with some reasonable explanation. In your pocket you can hear Thomas muttering something, but it’s not loud enough for you to hear properly. He’s probably just cursing me again.

“What?” Napoleon’s gaze drops onto you and you shiver at the fury in his eyes. “Captain, what is the truth of this matter?” his arm curls around Marie’s waist and pulls her to him protectively.

The intelligent one replies. “Sir, we were passing by your door when we heard muffled cries in here. We forced our way in and found this man—“ he points his bloodied blade at you, “—and his two confederates attacking Madame Marie. He insisted that she is the Fille de France and that she should be executed. His confederates suggested having some fun with her first and that was when we entered.”

The other man nods as Napoleon looks at him.

Oh come on, Napoleon, you’re smarter than that! Use your brain, they have blood all over them and are carrying bare blades, for Christ’s sake.

“We beheaded the brutes and were about to administer the same fate to their leader when you entered,” the Captain finishes.

You sigh as Napoleon looks at you. “You saved my life so that you could kill my love? How dare you.”

You try to appeal to his political side. “Look, I swear that I am innocent of this! She was trying to seduce me and she admitted to being Marie Therese, the French Princess. Of course she’s going to lie about it, she’s a noblewoman!”

He holds out his hand and the captain places his sword into it. “Stand back, my love, I must dispatch this ruffian!”

“A man in love is only as intelligent as his todger,” you mutter, sighing and attempting to put some distance between you and the enraged Napoleon.

The two soldiers place themselves between you and Marie, while Napoleon advances towards you. You back away and slip in the blood pool surrounding one of the bodies. Catching yourself against a chair, you pull yourself upright, turn and trip over the second body.

“Aha! I have you now.” Napoleon springs forward and lunges smoothly, the blade piercing your back, carving through your ribcage and as the point touches your heart. You think Oh, well, Nubleman isn’t going to get his time machine back.

Your heart bursts and blood flows out of every upper orifice, adding to the pool on the floor. Your last sight is of Marie. The damn bitch has a smirk on her face. What a nasty piece of work; I’m glad I didn’t do her now…

THE END

Oops...RETURN TO CHAPTER 4

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

RED PLANET STOWAWAY CH.3 RUSH THE DOOR

REDPLANET STOWAWAY CH.3 - RUSH THE DOOR WITH YOUR LASER PISTOL

By John Elrod III


Following your instincts, you point your new toy at the door and pull the trigger; nothing happens. You turn the laser pistol over in your hand several times, looking it over as if you had any idea of its inner workings. Throwing in a couple whacks and a few more trigger pulls, even one with the pistol precariously pointed at your face -- lucky for you, a small, unseen LCD screen on the pistol's grip reads, "Unrecognized DNA -- Pistol locked" -- you come to the frustrating conclusion that you will have to figure it out as you go.

"I will have to figure it out as I go,” you say aloud, to nobody in particular. You're acting peculiarly; first, almost lasering your face off, and now, speaking in narratives to the wind. Strange.

You rush to the door, damned pistol in hand, with an unexpected smile on your face. You flash back to summer days spent playing Cops and Robbers in the backyard with your little sister. She always got to be the Cops because your parents insisted you let her win. "She's a girl, and your sister," they said. Though you enjoyed being the bad guy, their condescension still infuriated you. In fact, it's the basis for your entire being, if you think about it -- which you do, quite often. "She's so smart,” they said. "She's class president."She's valedictorian.” "She's going to college." "She didn't wreck the family sedan." "Where did we go wrong with you?" These were all building blocks to the foundation of your current predicament, really. Her unwavering success is what drove you to take that night course in accounting -- why else would you? The constant comparison to her annoying perfection is why you applied so many years ago for the lousy temp job at NOSSA, that you knew you would never get. Who cares if they only hired you because nobody else applied and the last guy committed suicide by self-inflicted headblows from a calculator? That's all ether now. Look, where have you made it? That's right, Mars. I guess you showed them who the real moron is -- it's her -- even though the process has likely doomed you. Where's she, huh? Stuck back on Earth, in some dead-end job -- Assistant D.A.? Pssh -- and a loveless marriage with two little bast--

WAIT -- stop flashing back, you moron!

Shaking your jowls to the point of dizziness, you snap back to reality, or something like it, and realize you've somehow missed the door and are headed down a corridor, toward an electrical station. You struggle to halt your legs' motion, but they're unresponsive.

"What's happening to me?" you can barely think, as you glimpse a neon green, diamond-shaped sign.

"CAUTION: Methane gas. Gas mask required in this zone," it reads, but you're too bleary-eyed to make it out.

You're exhibiting the symptoms of methane gas poisoning. Slowly, the methane has deprived your brain of oxygen. Your cognitive faculties are all out of whack, your mind is having difficulties deciphering your environment, I'm pretty sure your hair wasn't on fire earlier, and worse yet, you're charging directly into thousands of volts of pain.

"Is that a dinosaur?" you can't help but ask yourself, "No, it isn't... well... this is Mars; so, maybe it could be. Stop! Focus on the matter at hand!" you whisper, as you've lost the ability to control your vocal volume.

Either the length of this corridor is uncanny, or you're not exactly moving nearly as fast as it feels. Nevertheless, you're desperate to stop. You spot a low-hanging chain and grab for it.

"Got it! -- shit, a snake!"

Powering through your delirium to realize a moment too late the absurdity of that thought, you're unable to grasp onto the chain once more. Your backwards momentum carries you, finally, through a thinly-paned sliding glass door and, forcefully, you crash into a wall of fuses, circuits, and a bunch of those little knobs that go "click-click-click" when they're turned too fast. An obscene amount of electricity coursing through your veins, you can think only of that dinosaur, or was it a sofa? A sofa? On Mars? Definitely a dinosaur. Definitely.

Meanwhile, a group of perplexed men in gas masks -- who moments before were doubled-over in laughter watching you slowly meander the ten foot corridor to your death -- are now dodging sporadic lasers from the overheated pistol still lodged in your crisping grip.

THE END

Oops...RETURN TO CHAPTER 3