BLAZING SADDLES, SMOKING TENTACLES CH.6 - 3:10 TO ZXUMA

BLAZING SADDLES, SMOKING TENTACLES CH.6 - 3:10 TO ZXUMA

by Steven Novak

When Garlock grabs Sally, your muscles stiffen. Instinctively, your tentacles slither forward.

Garlock’s grip on her neck tightens. “No! Don’t you dare take another step! Not yet! Not until I’ve said what needs to be said!”

You stop moving. There’s no choice. Sally is dangling from his tentacle, limbs flailing, fingers scraping at the slimy appendage coiled around her neck. Garlock has the advantage.

 The corners of his lips curl upward, all fifteen eyes narrow. “You’re a worthless flick of sniz, Rachorin! Gallivanting from system to system, spreading the appendages of unsuspecting, innocent, foolish females! Filling them with your seed and leaving them to pick up the pieces of their shattered lives! You’re a menace! A cancer! A blight on the good name of our species!”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about Garl…”

“No!” His tentacle pulls tighter around Sally’s neck. Her eyes bulge. She tries to scream, but she can hardly breathe. “This is not up for debate! You’re a fizzleburn! A calavot! A hidden grizzleglorp! A gleepeldeegleep of the highest order!”

Well, you certainly can’t argue any of that.

“It ends today Rachorin! I’m going kill you! I’m going to remove your organs and paint the hull of my ship with your blood! I’m going to smear your insides across the stars! Use your tentacles as a belt! Fashion your flesh into a vest and wear that pretty face of your as a hat!”

Garlock pulls sally close to his face, extends his tongue and licks her from neck to hair, coating her face in slime and smearing her tears. “Before I do any of that, I’m going to flay this tiresome girl! You will watch as the insides spill from her body and the life drains from her eyes! Her suffering shall be your suffering! She will die in the name of Scarletz Smigglezforth! And Rayden of planet Uropa! Misty Marcos of the Hightower Circle! And Princess Adelle! And Sanelle! The lovely Sanelle! My beautiful Sanelle!”

Sanelle?

Shit.

You remember Sanelle. How could you forget Sanelle? The things she did with those tentacles? The way she talked you into trying some backdoor games for the first time in your life? Until you met Sanelle you’d always assumed that particular hole was for removing stuff from your body.

You’d never been so wrong.

Sanelle was a half-pint stick of dynamite. Sanelle was a wildcat.

Garlock slimes forward, tentacles coiled, jittering. “Yes, that’s right! Now you see! Now you understand! Sanelle was my daughter! My beautiful little girl! A delicate flower! So innocent! So sweet! And you ruined her! Soiled her soul! Erased the proper young lady I raised and replaced her with nothing more than a harlot! You took advantage of her! Filled her womb with your little bastards!”

The statement is so absurd you almost chuckle. You didn’t take advantage of Sanelle. If anything she took advantage of you. Only one of you ended up with Galorian candles melting in your rectum while tied to the hood of your Malcordian Speeder, and it sure as hell wasn’t her.

Sanelle was a freak.

Garlock’s limbs continue to smear their way across the sand as he moves forward. Suddenly he’s screaming, spitting names you vaguely remember, sexual exploits you’d long forgotten, and the stolen virtue of his pervert daughter. At some point during his rant he stops paying attention to Sally. It’s a rookie mistake. His emotions have the better of him and Sally’s not as frail as she seems. She’s half your species, half-tough, and half a fighter. She’s a hard-nosed broad and she has more than the usual feminine weapons hidden beneath her dress.

You watch as a slimy appendage appears from just beneath the hem of her gown, then another. When a third tentacle emerges, it’s holding a shotgun. You’re not exactly sure where she was hiding that thing.

You aren’t sure you want to know.

The barrel of the weapon immediately goes to Garlock’s head. She pulls the trigger. Flesh and slime spray from the flashpoint, encased in a puff of smoke and spitting blood. Garlock yelps, headon fire, half his face opened up, three eyeballs airborne, two more swaying in the breeze. He topples sideways, knocks over a horse and smashes through the front door of Missy May’s Whore Emporium.

Sally’s hands go to her neck, bright red, struggling to catch her breath. She looks in your direction, tosses you the shotgun, nods, and growls, “Go git that bastard.”

You’re liking her more and more every day.

By the time you enter the Emporium, the place is a mess, floor sticky with slime and spattered with blood, half-naked humans hiding under tables and running into walls, penis’ flopping and boobs bouncing. The body of a portly, gray-haired cowboy flies past your head and through the window behind you. Garlock emerges from behind the bar, dripping blood, half his face missing, two more humans dangling from his tentacles.

“You’ve ruined everything Rachorin! Ruined it all!”

One of Missy May’s finest whores slams into your chest. She’s not the biggest girl, but she’s thrown with such force that she knocks you backward and into the wall. You can hear her spine snap.

Garlock is swinging wildly, throwing, and smashing, and screaming, aiming to anything. Aiming for everything. He shatters a mirror, reduces a section of the bar to splinters. “You bastard! Why her? Why did it have to be her?”

The enraged bounty hunter tosses a second cowboy your way. You reach for his boots, try your best to snag him with your tentacles, but he slips past, slams into a tabel and cracks his skull.

You have to move.

Suddenly you’re charging, sliming your way across the room, dodging bottles, and chairs, and human beings, firing rounds in Garlcok’s direction. The side of the bounty hunter opens wide. One of his tentacles explodes. Another tears free from his body and shoots across the room. A bottle hits you in the face. Broken glass tears open your arm. The airborne body of a particularly beefy whore momentarily knocks the wind out of you. Through it all you never stop shooting, reloading and shooting again. By the time you reach Garlock you’re out of ammo and the muzzle of your weapon is smoking. His body is a mess of shredded flesh and slime, peppered with shrapnel, wounds gushing, insides sprayed across the bar.

The mound of mauled meat that was once his face jerks. Sticky lips quiver. “Y-y-ou…”

You can barely hear him, voice so soft, words garbled and running together. “Y-yo-ou…go-gonn-gonna…ki…”

His face explodes.

A few feet behind you, Sally grins, pistol still smoking in her hand. “What exactly did you do to his daughter, Doc?”

God damn she’s sexy.

You wipe bits of Garlock’s brain from your face and smile back. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

She lowers her gun, moves alongside you, wraps her arms and tentacles around your waist. “Yeah…I think I would.”

Two of her tentacles head south, managing to find an orifice that hasn’t been used since Sanelle and worming their way inside. Her head moves to yours, lips to your ear. “I think I’d like that very much.”

THE END

TIME DOUCHE CH. 6 - DAWN OF THE DOUCHE

TIME DOUCHE CH.6 - DAWN OF THE DOUCHE

By Steven Novak

Napoleon smiles at you in that greasy-gross way only he and his weird little face can. For the first time since meeting him, you realize that he looks an awful lot like a used car salesman. History’s most feared general looks like he should be selling you a Honda Civic at a jacked up price.

“Is this what you are looking for, my friend?” Napoleon says with a snarl and an almost comical raise of his eyebrow.

The gesture makes you want to punch him right in his sweaty round face. Marie’s grip tightens on your arm and her head peeks out from over your shoulder. Napoleon is laughing now, chuckling to himself while he dangles the translator in his hand. You want to grab him by the little strand of hair hanging over his forehead, spin him around and slam him into a tree. At that same time, you are completely aware of the fact that you won’t be doing any of those things. Sure, Napoleon’s a five-foot-nothing pipsqueak, but you’re not exactly the world’s most intimidating dude either.

He also has the advantage of knowing how to use a sword.

You once needed six stitches after slicing open your finger while chopping broccoli.

Car salesman or not, you’d be smart to keep your distance.

At the same time, you’ve seen enough time travel movies, and watched and enough episodes of Star Trek, to understand that leaving the translator in Napoleon’s hands probably isn’t the brightest thing to do.

Oh, well.

Without warning you shove Marie backward and into the time machine. She trips over her own feet, clonks her head on the rear paneling, and yelps. You follow her inside and shut the door behind you, but not before flashing Mr. Honda Civic the finger.

He has no idea what the gesture means. You honestly don’t care.

Once you’re inside, the machine begins to honk and beep and flash and whir exactly as it did when you first stepped in at Nubleman’s place. A green light emerges from a bulb behind you, illuminates the back of your head, then begins to slide downward until it reaches Marie. You can hear Napoleon outside. He’s banging on the machine and whacking it with his sword.

Though you have no idea what you’re doing, you start pressing buttons. Marie is on her feet now. She’s standing behind you with her hands on your shoulders, pinching at your skin nervously and gnawing at her lower lip like a side of beef.

“What are you doing?” She screams at the top of her lungs as the machine begins to hum and rattle, and Napoleon’s sword continues to whack against it from the outside.

“I’m not . . .entirely . . .sure.” You answer respond honestly, because you aren’t—at all.

The chair you’re sitting in starts to wobble and the panels in front of your face flash like something out of a video game. Suddenly you feel Marie’s mouth on your neck. Her tongue bobbles your earlobe. She rips your shirt backward and mumbles something breathily into your flesh that sounds a little bit like, “This is so hot.”

This girl is a real freak.

By the time she has her hands down your collar and has begun tweaking your nipples, the beeps and boops crescendo into a sustained tone. The very instant she bites your neck there’s a flash of light a hundred times brighter than any of the ones prior. For a moment, everything goes black.

When you open your eyes, you realize that you’re sprawled out awkwardly on the floor of the machine. Your head is pounding and you’re covered in sweat. Someone is tugging at the waistband of your pants and your blood is rapidly rushing to your genitals. It’s Marie. She’s trying to get your pants off.

Oh yeah, she’s a freak and a half.

You’d like nothing more than to see just how freaky she really is, but you decide it might be in your best interest to take a look outside and see where Nubleman’s piece of junk has taken you. After successfully prying horny Marie, The Eighteenth Century Nymphomaniac, from your bloomers, you reach up and smack the door-opening button with your palm. The metal slides open with a whoosh.

Unfortunately, it jams half way.

There’s a black, foul smelling smoke rising up from under the machine, and the outside is covered in dents. Flashes of electricity occasionally spark from the areas where the dents look more like gashes.

It seems the little car salesman did a heck of a lot more damage than you thought he could.

The moment you step out of the machine it bursts into flames. The fire singes the hairs on the back of your neck and something explodes under Nubleman’s pile of junk. You snag Marie around the waist, pull her away from the fire, and tumble together to the ground.

A puddle of greenish colored goop softens your landing.

Despite the fact that you’re partially submerged in what is essentially Nickelodeon Gack, almost instantly Marie has latched onto your neck again. In between kisses, and licks, and full on slobbers, she’s mumbling something about the fact that she’s “waited long enough” and that she wants you to “spank her, ravish her,” and remind her what it’s like to be with a “real man.”

Not only is she freaky, she’s obviously confused.

Through Marie’s flailing strands of hair, you notice that the sky overhead is remarkably red—far redder than you’ve ever seen it, or than it ever should be. The air smells like sulfur. It’s a bit thicker than you’re accustomed to. The temperature is absolute sweltering.

Marie’s hand slides down your shirt and heads south.

The landscape on either side of you is mostly rocky. Everything seems to be covered in a layer of reddish sand and dirt and there’s not a single bit of foliage to be found. Though you can’t tell for sure with Marie’s limbs flailing the way they are, you think you spot a volcano in the distance.

Speaking of crazy-Marie: she shoves her tongue down your throat.

That’s when it hits you. Though your knowledge of earth’s history is rudimentary at best, you suddenly know where you are. Nubleman’s machine really did a number on you this time. You’ve gone almost as far back in earth’s history as you could possibly go.

The goop your sliding around might just be the very same goop from which life itself will eventually spring.

Marie climbs on top of you, rips open her shirt and flops out in all her glory.

Oh, well. Marie was right about one thing; this is going to be pretty hot.

THE END

TIME DOUCHE CH. 4 - Let's Get It On

TIME DOUCHE CH.4 - LET'S GET IT ON

By MJ Heiser

Napoleon Bonaparte has a reputation for being cagey, smart, relentless, and incredibly short-tempered. He experienced a meteoric rise to power, and it began shortly after the end of the French Revolution. Yes, before long, he will be one of the most powerful men in the Western World.

But Marie is effing sexy, and there is no way you're letting this hot piece get away from you.

Besides, you think to yourself as you sink further into irrevocable arousal, I have a time machine. He does not. I can totally get away with this.

She whimpers as you pull her bustle-bottomed body closer to you. Curly tendrils of her soft, fragrant hair fall in your face. She straddles your leg and slowly starts to grind her delicious, curvaceous, straight-from-a-period-romance-novel body against yours.

"There is something so different about you," she whispers heatedly into your ear. "I saw it when you first arrived. You are – cleaner? Different grooming? You stand differently –"

Nubleman's totally unwelcome voice intrudes on this very sexy moment. "Please, dear God, tell me you're not about to boff Marie Therese."

"Who?" you ask your pocket.

Marie screeches and bounces away from your prong-accented lap. "Merde! What was that?"

Damn, you think, and you slap your hand over your forehead. You addressed Nubleman before you addressed the woman you were about to defile. You drag your hand down your face, then return your attention to Marie. She's wide-eyed and frightened, pressed into the far corner.

"Shh, it's okay," you whisper, approaching the young woman and trying to find a way to keep her from screaming. As the blood returns to your brain, you find it suddenly easy to reflect on how fear is a total turn-off.

"Someone referred to me as Marie Therese!" she whispered. This whisper is a far cry from the silky purr she'd slid into your ear just a moment ago. This one is harsh and accusatory. "Who said it? You tell me now, you peasant scum!"

You frown at her. Peasant scum? Who is this broad?

"Uh, I didn't hear anything." You want to slap your hand over your forehead again. You sure aren't going to be winning any Nobel prizes for rhetoric. –Oh, right. The Nobel prize guy hasn't even been born yet, has he?

The young woman's manner stiffens, and you see something almost regal in her bearing. "You lie, pig."

Pocket Nubleman has gone quiet. You want to ask him who the hell Marie Therese is, but she doesn't seem to respond well to him, and the last thing you need is evidence of what you're trying to convince her didn't happen.

There's commotion in the next room. Marie pulls you close, but it certainly isn't a move borne of desire or any of that lovely lust that was so thick in the room a moment ago. She hisses in your ear: "You listen to me now. No one is to know I am Marie Therese. As far as anyone is concerned, Marie Therese is on her merry way to Austria to escape the fate of her parents. I want no part of beheadings or anything having to do with my royal past – I want only to live my life as a common woman, and perhaps even the consort of Napoleon."

You think you hear a deep intake of breath from your pantaloons pocket. You wonder if Nubleman is rubbing his fat fingers together in glee over these dark intrigues. You don't really care. You suddenly feel the sleep deprivation down to your toes. Lust overrides fatigue, but the effects don't last forever.

What I wouldn't give for a Starbucks, you think wearily to yourself.

"Do you understand me, pig?" Marie adds.

"So I can't tell Napoleon that you're – whoever you are."

"I am Marie Therese," she says haughtily, drawing herself up to her full height. "I am Madame Royale, Fille de France, and eldest child of Louis and Antoinette."

"So – Napoleon won't like that."

She giggles. "He'll probably want to kill me."

You sigh. "That's not even a little awkward for me, is it?"

Her smile falters. "What isn't?"

French royalty was apparently not well-schooled in sarcasm.

Oh, well, it hardly matters. You're out of here tomorrow – right? Then Marie can play her little black-sheep, naughty-princess games with Napoleon and all of his other friends. In the meantime, you need sleep.

"Never mind. I won't tell Napoleon – but may I get some sleep now?"

"I still want to have you," she says, and that gorgeous sex kitten has suddenly made her reappearance in the room. She glides closer.

And right at that moment, the door to your private little hidden shelter explodes inwards, showering your head with wooden shrapnel. Four large brutes (really? France was capable of making men this big? What happened?) shoulder their way into the cramped space.

"What have we here?" says the biggest of the louts. He is obviously unaware he has uttered a total movie-line cliché. "Where is Napoleon? He is due back at camp. We have reports that Marie Therese has escaped."

Marie looks at you. Once again the fear in her eyes proves to be a total turn-off.

Should you...

A. Betray Marie's trust and tell the men that she's the escaped royal?

B. Defend Marie, hoping to get into those royal knickers at a later time?

C. Try to rouse Napoleon in the hopes these men stop asking uncomfortable questions?

TIME DOUCHE CH. 3 - JUST SAY NO

TIME DOUCHE CH.3 - JUST SAY NOBy Debbie Davis
You laugh nervously and move her hand away. “We don’t need to do that,” you whisper.

She smiles and puts her hand back on your chest and you try to remember the last time a chick this hot was throwing herself at you. Oh. Right. That’d be never. “I would like to say thank you for saving Napoleon, Monsieur Fred.” She brings her mouth close to yours and tries to kiss you. “So, merci.”

Her accent is spot on. At least from your vague memory of French class. The way the words flow from her lips makes you want to put yours there….No! Stop! You jerk your head away. “Wait, aren’t you from Austria?”

“Oui,” she nods. “How is it that you know this?”

Shit! You shouldn’t know that! Unless, of course your from hundreds of years in the future. Shit! Shit! Shit! Faux pas, even.

“You told me,” you offer. Her hand has now moved to the task of loosening the God forsaken shirt you’re wearing and your eyes dart around. Her bedroom door is closed, and the fireplace in the area you’re in flickers as if it is trying to set the scene for you out of some romance novel like the ones your mother used to read.

“I told you no such thing.” She smiles at you. “You would only know this if you were following me. Were you following me, Monsieur Fred?”

“I wasn’t following you,” you tell her.

“Monsieur Fred,” she shifts her body, rolling it closer to yours, and brushes her lips on your neck. Sweet Jesus. “It is not good to lie.”

“Napoleon told me then,” you try. “Earlier, before we came here. He wouldn’t stop talking about you,” you add, hoping she may allow this knowledge to sway her from the original mission. As much as you’d like to bone her, you’re no fool. She belongs to Napoleon Bonaparte, the emperor of France, for God sakes!

She smiles. “Ah, yes Napoleon is a great man, which is why I must thank you for saving his life.”

“Words are enough!” you say frantically. “Truly!”

A voice comes from your pocket. A voice that is going to be haunting your dreams for all of eternity. Thomas. “Could you stop talking you bloody eediot! It’s three thirty in the morning.”

Marie stops abruptly. “What was that?”

You shrug and shake your head. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

A disturbingly evil expression paints her face right before she grabs at your manhood roughly. You yelp. “You think I am stupide, Fred? Your crotch is talking.”

Actually, your pocket is talking. More aptly speaking, Thomas is simply back with his mindless babble. Blah. Blah. Blah.

“I assure you, Madame, it is not.”

“Oui,” she says. “It is.”

Maybe she’s as pretty on the inside as she is outside. Perhaps the truth will work. You move her and sit up. “Marie, I am from far in the future. I came here in a time machine and I just want to get home.”

Her eyebrows furrow. “You’re lying to me.”

“I’m not.”

“You are. This story you tell is ridiculous and impossible.”

Okay, so that didn’t go off as well as you thought it would. You try the next best thing… rejection. “Listen Marie, I don’t know what you were hoping would happen between us, but I just don’t see you that way.”

She takes a lot of air in and before you realize what she’s about to do, and far before you can stop her, she screams, “TRAITOR!”

The word works like a flipping dog whistle and you jump to your feet just in time to see Napoleon storming from the room, naked as the day he was born.

“Zut Alors! What is going on here?”

You look down at yourself: your shirt is unbuttoned, and despite how much you tried to think of your big toe while she was throwing herself at you, there’s a tent pitched in your pantaloons.

“N-n-nothing,” you say with as much confidence as you can find.

Napoleon's eyes dart to your pants. Since he’s naked you know he’s about to get a serious case of envy. “It does not look like nothing.”

Marie rushes to his arms. “Ah, Napoleon. This man Fred, he is a brute. He came here as your friend and confidante and now he tried to take advantage of me. The worst kind of animal.”

Napoleon is eerily quiet but he doesn’t need words. Anger swirls in his eyes, and he mumbles something to Marie that you cannot hear. She retreats into the bedroom and you look for something, anything you can use to defend yourself, but the only thing around is the blanket Marie tried to take advantage of you on.

You hold your hands up. “Listen man, your woman came on to me. I rejected her, end of story.”

“YOU LIE!” He screams.

“No,” you shake your head, “I swear, it’s true.”

“My woman is not unfaithful.” As he says it, Marie returns from the bedroom with the biggest sword you’ve ever seen.

“She’s unfaithful!” You yell. “And if she isn’t, it’s not for lack of trying!”

“Arrrgh!”

Napoleon lunges forward wielding his sword like the fencing people you’ve seen on TV. Only his sword is ten times as wide and three times as long. The frigging thing is huge. Well, we all know what he’s compensating for, you think to yourself in the seconds before he takes your head clean off your shoulders.

THE END

Oops...RETURN TO CHAPTER 3

TIME DOUCHE CH. 3 - FOLLOW THE LITTLE GENERAL

TIME DOUCHE CH.3 - THE LITTLE GENERAL

By Yasamin Alisha

You take off behind the young man in front of you, clutching the communicator in your pocket.

“That's it! You've... mmmfffphh really screwed up... grrggg... mrrrfff... damnit!” Thomas is screaming muffled phrases at you through your hand and two layers of fabric.

“Shut up! You're going to get me killed and then you aren't getting your stupid machine back, so just shut up for once, you damned windbag!” you growl into the communicator angrily.

“I'm sorry, did you say something?” Bonaparte asks as he turns a sharp corner, grabbing your elbow to take you with him.

“Oh, no, not at all. I'm just trying to survive.”

“Are not we all, friend?” He hustles you around another corner down a small alley and through a low door.

You stop and let your eyes adjust as the door is closed behind you. Thomas is being oddly quiet and the gravity of the situation starts to really kick in. You're stuck. You've just run off with one of the most famous conquerors in history. What the hell was Thomas thinking?!

“Quickly, they will be here soon,” Boneparte whispers from across the room.

You blink as you look around, finding him kneeling in a corner and holding up a trap door. You take to the stairs, as he seals the door above your heads.

As you reach the bottom of the stairs you realize you're not alone.

“Mon Dieu!” a soft, lilting voice says as you see her serving bowls of some strange stew.

“Marie, be calm. He's a friend.”

“Is it over? I see you are alive.” She runs to him and you try not to stare at her breasts, which barely stay confined in the top of her low collared, simple brown dress.

“It is. This is...” He turns to you and you shrug.

“Fred.” you mutter. “Uhhh... Do you have a bathroom down here?”

He directs you to the small hall leading to two other rooms: one a small bedroom, the other like an outhouse. You close the door behind you and pull out the communicator.

“Listen here, pal. You built a time machine in your freaking house next to your guest bedroom? What idiot does that!? You want to be a mad scientist you do it right; you build a proper lair like everyone else, preferably underground or in a mountain, or if you're lucky you'll find an unoccupied volcano! BUT NOOO, you had to build it in the shape of a damned shower in your house next to your guest room!”

“Are you quite finished?” Thomas replies calmly.

“No. No I'm not. You deprived me of dinner, you jackass. You're lucky I didn't piss all over your stupid time machine! Get me out of here, and do it now!”

“I need you to get back to the machine. I can instruct you on how to get back here, but you need to get back to the machine!”

“I'm kind of stuck right now, so I'm in charge here, pal. I'm on the run in France of all places, with Napoleon outside this door making kissy face with some hot chick. So As soon as I get back, I'll call you. I'm going to try not to step on any damned snails and change history any further than I've already done. Okay?”

“Fine.” You can tell Thomas is angry but he has no choice and you like that idea.

You shove the communicator back into the little pocket of your puffy pants and head back out to Bonaparte. “Sorry, just a little stressed.”

“Understandable, my friend. I want to thank you for your help today. This is Marie, my love.” He points to the pretty girl with blonde curls who hands you a bowl of stew. You try not to stare at her, but God, is she hot.

“Hi there.”

“Hello.” She's shy and you can't help but like that.

“So where are you from? Your accent is impeccable.”

You reach up and cup your hand over the translator and blush. “Oh... here and there. I am a wanderer.” And apparently a really good liar, you can't help thinking to yourself.

You sit at the bench table and devour your stew. The lovers coo at each other as they feed each other and you can't help thinking about French girls and the ones you might be missing, hiding underground. “So, I need to get back to the glen where I left my... carriage... yeah.”

“Impossible for now. The palace guards are on the hunt. You will have to stay with us at least over night before you can go any further.”

“Oh that just sucks.” you mutter.

“Excuse me?” Bonaparte is staring at you strangely. “What is sucking?”

“Uhhh... Never mind.” Shit! You think to yourself. You'll have to watch your words around this guy. You don't need Napoleon walking around France screaming “It sucks!” instead of “Charge!”

“Shhh... they come.” Everyone stills as you hear the feet on the floorboards above you.

“We are looking for that upstart Bonaparte and a stranger with him! An accomplice in his murderous ways!” Guards are yelling at someone above you.

“There is no one here, but please feel free to turn my shop upside down as you do every time you feel the need to search for someone.” says the voice of an elderly woman. You can barely hear her but her tone is exasperated, even to you. There is much tumbling above you as the guards turn the shop upside down and leave.

“They sicken me, those palace pigs.” Bonaparte says as he eats his stew with anger.

“I want to fight them, now!” Marie is shaking a ladle above her head.

“Mon Ami, we cannot. You will stay here, be safe and tomorrow I will take Fred back to the glen. I will return for you and we will run, you and me.”

The stew is finished and Bonaparte leads Marie to the small bedroom. He peeks his head out and says, “There is a pallet for you to sleep on by the fire and blankets for warmth. Sleep well and I will wake you early. Do not worry, we will get you back to your carriage.” and with that you are left alone.

You pull out the communicator and start to whisper, “Thomas . . . shhh, keep it down. Can you hear me?”

“Yes.”

“I will be back at the time machine by morning and you can stop shitting bricks.”

“Do not do anything stupid! You will change the face of time, you fool!”

“Stop squawking at me. Everything will be fine.” You turn the volume on the communicator down and go to sleep.

As you doze, dainty hands wrap around your chest and you turn only to face Marie.

“You saved my Napoleon, no?” Her soft accent makes your toes curl as she lies next to you and presses her body to you.

“Not really. I just ran with him.”

“You do not have to lie to me.”

“Uhhh... Shouldn't you be in bed?”

“I am... Let us commence...”

Should you...

A: Sleep with Marie, hoping to get away with it?

B: Not sleep with Marie and tell Bonaparte that his woman isn't faithful?

C: Run like hell?