THE FUTURE Agghh! Part 15

WARNING! WARNING! RETCON IN PROGRESS! WARNING! AAAAAHHHH! I ALMOST SPELLED “RETCON” LIKE “RECTON,” THE FIRST FOUR LETTERS OF WHICH ARE THE SAME AS THE WORD “RECTUM,” A HAPPENSTANCE WHICH WOULD HAVE THUS LED TO AN UNINTENTIONALLY HILARIOUS SITUATION. NOW THAT WOULD HAVE BEEN COMEDY!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! But sadly, such an occurrence will never take place (though, I mean, wouldn’t it have been funny if it had happened - just saying is all).

“But what is a retcon?” you may very well ask (and we must very well answer, given the strict laws on writer-hypothetical reader relations). Well, a retcon is when a mommy and a daddy love each other, but the daddy’s mommy had always wanted a daughter, so she dressed the daddy up in girl’s clothes until he was eight, so now the daddy has to wear a dress whenever he is having....oh dear, perhaps I have said too much.

“But what really is a retcon?” you demand with growing consternation. Unfortunately I have not the level of writing ability to explain this concept to the full extent of your understanding. But I know a man who can. He had a wig and a lot of crazy ideas. I bet you think I’m talking about some homeless guy with a penchant for collecting false hair, but that is only half-true. I am talking, of course, about Thomas Jefferson:

“When, in the course of human events, it becomes necessary for one people to dissolve a part of the plot of a post on an online forum in order to have the overarching story make any semblance of sense...” [from the contraversial 2.5 version of the Declaration of Independence]. It is prudent to stop there, lest Jefferson’s prose fill our heads with the radical ideas of liberty, equality, and hot inter-racial exxxxxxtra!!!!!!!!-marital slave sex (I’m sorry, it just wouldn’t be a Thomas Jefferson joke without Sally Hemings).

But what I am saying, in truth, is that I lied. Horribly, deceitfully, and apparently knowingly. For you see, if we all know from the TIMEZONE Chronicles that Jefferson, Lincoln, and Grant terminated the existence of all parallel universes, whence did Chaldor emerge? To clarify this dilemma once and for all it shall now be established that Chaldor was summoned not from a parallel dimension, but rather, and more plausibly, from an eschatologically religious colony on the 6th ring of Saturn. Well, now that everything is in order, we can proceed with the “Saga of Rick Gallen.” Oh wait. Crap. Um...for the purposes of the “Saga of Rick Gallen” being coherent, let’s say there were like 5 extra parallel dimensions left at the end of the TIMEZONE Chronicles. Yeah, 5’s a good number. By the retconning power vested in me by RECTON, patron saint of unintentionally hilarious situations, I proclaim the existence of 5 extra parallel universes! Look’s like Rick’s gonna make it after all!


The Saga of the Rick Gallen Chronicles, Part 3: The True Story of Little Bo Peep and the Ovine Organ Scandal

(It should be noted that this series of events takes place in the year 3000 in order to remain cannon and not upset our loyal fans - after all, where would we be without RETCONNING?)

Clarkton hurried to his car, lest a more meandering pace should remind him of the unpleasantness at the gala. Opening the door to his government limousine seemed to immediately activate the proletarianly Cockney accent of his driver, Finchley.
“Back to ‘eadquartehs, guvna?” came Finchley’s ridiculous and hideous voice from the front seat.
“Twouldst seem” “That is” “To be” “The best course of action” “For the moment.”
“Righto!”
Clarkton closed his door rather dejectly, and the limousine set off.
“So, Mr. Clarkton, ‘ow was the event? Get ‘acquainted’ with any birds? Know what I mean? Know what-”
“I would” “rather not discuss” “it”
“-I mean? I’m talking about females. You know, ‘females’? Know what I mean? Know what I mean?”
The car had not been driving for more than a minute (though it seemed like much longer with Finchley’s unceasing attempts at innuendo) when a red light began flashing from Clarkton’s phone. As much as he dreaded that little red light (for it meant DANGER! or AN E-MAIL ATTACHMENT!), it gave him an opportunity to get out of the limousine. He signalled to Finchley to pull over - Finchley now seemed stuck on a loop, but was nevertheless thoroughly enjoying himself - since one could talk on Chaldorean phones only when they were stationary. After a few failed attempts at communication, Clarkton finally got Finchley’s attention, and the car parked on a shoulder of the road next to a salt bank. Clarkton stepped out of the car, hesitated, and took the call.

It was his boss. The boss at his real job at the CFA, the secret police of Chaldor. His position in the Ministry of Matters Geological and Occult was merely a front - well, to be fair, the CFA was part of the Ministry of Matters Geological and Occult, but there were only like three Ministries in Chaldor anyway; I mean, the Ministry of War contained the Office of Toilet Maintenence and Repair, and no one even knew what the Ministry of the Cultural Navy did (though some speculated that they taught short-story writing seminars at the Chaldorean Community Colleges).

His boss spoke normally, but Clarkton could hear the tension in his voice.
“Clarkton, Borkter and Sphinct’s ambulance, the one that was tracking Nick Fallon, well somehow Fallon captured it and used it to blow up a salt mine.”
“How has no one” “heard of the” “attack yet?”
“We managed to cover it up pretty quickly, but-”
“Nick Fallon”
“Yeah, I know, but-”
“Stole an ambulance” “blew up a salt mine”
“Clarkton, listen-”
“My god, Borkter and Sphinct, are they alri-”
“YOU FOOL, BORKTER AND SPHINCT ARE DEAD!”
Clarkton was silent, so stunned he could not speak his stilted sounds.
“I’m sorry Clarkton, I know you used to get in a lot of hilarious situations with them. But Fallon’s still out there. He actually, he wants to talk with you. You’re the only one he will talk to. I think it’s because, despite the fact that you are on opposite sides of the government and the conflict between tyranny, liberty, and anarchy, he respects you, not just as a foe, but as a man who-”
“Oh” “I shall talk” “To him”
“-just as the the cat respects the mouse for his agile hiding abilities and the mouse does so in return on account of the sharpness of the cat’s teeth, so to do you and Mr. Fallon share in the affirmation that there is mutual, albeit grudging, respect for one another, a respect which-”
Clarkton took the new call.

“Is this Clarkton?” The voice was American, arrogant yet nonpretentious. It must be Fallon. He was on of the few IVY Leaguers who wasn't reciting all the time. Yes, Nick Fallon and all his partisans were IVY Leaguers. The Chaldorean government told the public that they were domestic terrorists, for that was less frightening than the fact that IVY had already managed to infiltrate Chaldorean territory. Fallon and his team were no conducting espionage and sabotage missions on a daily basis.
“What do” “You want?” Clarkton asked hesitatingly.
“A deal. That’s what I want, a deal. And you wanna know why? ‘Cause I respect you, that’s why, because, like the chicken and the antelope...” 10 minutes of similies later, along with about 40 seconds of taut political discussion (it always manages to work its way into conversations), Fallon finally explained that he had a hostage, a CFA spy by the name of Rick Gallen [an unfortunate mistake on Fallon’s part], and that he would trade him for two new CFA ambulances filled with munitions. Realizing that they had no spies by that name, Clarkton hung up. He had always thought these phone calls between terrorist and government investigator were supposed to be raw, deep, revealing, and symbolic of man’s struggle with his baser natures, or something like that. But Fallon sounded like an idiot. How he managed to carry out so many attacks on the Chaldorean government was beyond Clarkton. Yes, Fallon was an idiot. But then, so many government officials were too...it was at this moment that Rick’s escape pod whistled through the air past Clarkton and crashed into the mansion Clarkton had just driven away from. Clarkton didn’t know what it was, but he still activated the emergency GPS system on his phone, designed to emit a signal telling the CFA to send reinforcements and to give the reinforcements his location (but signals can easily be intercepted...............just some foreshadowing for those paying attention.........................yes, very easily intercepted). He looked around. Finchley and the limousine were gone (although, to Finchley’s credit, he was going to the nearest convenience store to get some hotpockets for himself and Clarkton). Squinting at the smoke in the distance rising up from the mansion, Clarkton gave a sigh and began running.


Part ?: And What Of The Pod?

Setting: Presidential Palace, Forbidden Palace, Forbidden City, Glorious Capital City, Utah, Chaldor, ACACE

The whinging government lackey rushed through the set of gold-plated doors. “President Ch’ldor, we’ve just intercepted a CFA emergency signal in Sector B!” [Did I not call that? Yeah, foreshadowing!]
“Good Chaldor! Not Sector B!” President Ch’ldor, leader of AONRE (ACACE and Other Non-Related Entities), nearly fell out of his gold-plated throne. He dropped his gold-plated coffee cup and it shattered. Into gold-plated shards. “They’ve found Quigley! Which means they must have found the LAMP! Sound out my bounty hunters! Immediately!”
The air shimmered in front of the president, and 10 bounty hunters materialized in formation. They were gold-plated. They looked like Boba Fett. In other words, they looked like golden Boba Fetts. One stepped out in front of the rest (he was their leader, and his name was Homme von Rocket). “You called?” he said awesomely.



Setting: CFA Ambulance, Secter F, Utah, Chaldor, ACACE

Nick Fallon was pressing the gas pedal straight into the floor, urging the stolen ambulance to go faster with a pasty hand pointed in the distance.
“Hang up on me. I’ll hang up on him, I’ll hang up on all of them! No one hangs up on an IVY Leaguer! Leftenant! Call Clarkton again, I want to hang up on him! No, wait! Leftenant! Have you triangulated Clarkton’s position?” he asked inquiringly, continuing to stare out onto the salt flats over which the vehicle was hurdling.
“Um, Sir,” replied his second in command, “We do not have that capability, just as man is not able to change his fate when the gods have decreed it. But we did manage to intercept a CFA emergency signal in Sector B.” [What? What! I’m on a roll with this foreshadowing thing!]
“To Sector B!” Fallon popped the emergency brake and spun the wheel. The resulting j-turn threw the second in command out of the ambulance and onto the salt flat. Salt being soft (according to science), he was not hurt, but the rest of the team of IVY Leaguers was on the ground too, and the ambulance had three flat tires.
Mr. Sworly, the team’s electronics expert walked over. “Pardon me Gage, but did Fallon damage his cranium in some fashion when we last exploded that salt mine? I mean, he’s been acting oddly, though the mists of time do not give a tuppence otherwise.”
“Yea, actually. I do believe he has dislodged a part of his brain.”
“Dear me, what are we to do now? For my tracking device has shown that we are truly lost. We are not even in the Sectors anymore, but rather might even be out in the region of... the Secters.”
“Uh-oh,” thought Gage. Then out of the corner of his eye he saw Fallon running from the ambulance. “Wait!” he shouted vainly, “You shall fall into a saltlacc!” [The saltlacc is a sarlacc made out of salt and is also a totally original idea of mine and no one else’s so there.]
Fallon disappeared in a puff of salt. “Blast the heavens!” muttered Gage.



Setting: Wilworth Manse, Sector B [yes, the Sector B], Utah, Chaldor, ACACE

Meanwhile, Clarkton had made it to the mansion and was surveying the chaos in the foyer. Everyone who had been at the government gala had fainted or was running around screaming. Clarkton tried to ask about what had happened, but the most lucid response he received concerned organizing a rescue party to save the fondue in the abatoir. Abandoning this effort, Clarkton began searching the first first floor for clues. The first one he found was the massive hole cause by Rick’s escape pod, but his access to it was blocked by a pile of cheese platters.He began to clear a path, but Lord Shiwlee tackled him.
“Are you” “Mad?” he shouted, fear causing his eyes to bulge, “For that way ist” “It leadst to where” “Where the Wilworths” “Du’rst keep.....Quigley!”

Rick emerged from the wreckage of the escape pod. It was musty and dark all around, except for the gaping hole in the ceilng that was ringed with fire. He could hear aristocratic screams from the floor above. Across the room a foppish young man was sitting on a cardboard box, clutching the sides with his hands, his pale and sickly face peering at Rick inquisitively. Rick was weirded out, to say the least. (In fact, you might say he was freaked the hell out, but let’s not push it).
His voice wavered as he asked, “This isn’t Torture Headquarters, is it?” (It wasn't. Borkter and Sphinct, in one of their zany escapades, and disabled the escape pod's navigation system, ensuring that it would go anywhere but the CFA's torture headquarters).
The young man tilted his head. “Not at all, Sir, but rather something much more altogether horrid and arcane.”
“Oh.” How do I get away from here?”
“I could tell you. But why would you want to leave? For through the door is a tomb, the realm of my dead ancestors, a place of refinement and gentility, where my thoughts are respected by those no longer drifting through this temporarily mortal realm of ours, where I, Quigley Wilworth, am able to speak in the tongue of the ancients, to gaze upon the beaty of the Cybelean lamp, to discuss things both base and elegant, to live! I understand them, and they understand me. But my parents don’t understand. The community doesn’t understand. They locked the tomb up, prevented me from achieving my destiny, my true glory, from seeing the lamp. They began building walls around it, to prevent me from even finding the entrance. But still, I slept here every night until I was finally concealed, and now I am waiting, oh waiting, for the time when I shall finally be reunited with my tomb. Oh, the tomb is filled with such wondrous things, perhaps I shall tell you more.”
Quigley had stopped staring at Rick by this time, instead focusing his incredibly creepy eyes on some unknown point in space-time, and Rick had begun to back away from Quigley ever so slowly, hoping not to attract his attention. He hit something, and it opened with a huge creak. Quigley kept talking.
“Wait,” said Rick with a growing realization, “Creak? WTF, the door’s right here. You were just making that stuff up about the tomb! I’m leaving.” True to his words, he left the basement, slamming the door behind him.

Clarkton shoved Lord Shiwlee out of the way, and starting kicking platters, willy-nilly I might add. He had almost reached the hole, when a pair of golden hands appeared and handcuffed him. The hands were followed by the rest of the bounty hunter’s body. Behind him, other bounty hunters set up a perimeter around the whole and erected a laser shield over it.
“What is” “This all about” flustered Clarkton “I am a CFA agent, 15th degree” “Let me” “Through.”
“Sorry Sir,” replied the bounty hunter, “Our authority exceeds yours on this mission. We were sent by President Ch’ldor himself to secure the area. There must be something pretty important around here.”
Homme von Rocket jetpacked into the house through the ceiling. “Soldier!” he shouted curtly, “You will stand down and say no more about the current assignment! Is that clear!”
Without a word the other bounty hunter stepped back from Rick quickly, efficiently, dead-ily.
Homme turned around to look at Clarkton and let out a laugh. “Clarkton?! Didn’t expect to find you doing something as physical as this. You look like your lungs gonna bust. Maybe you should’ve worked a bit harder in gym class back when we were in school. You could’ve been like me, captain of the trophy team.”
“As I recall” Clarkton spat acidly, “You didst not happen to be” “On the roster for graduation.” “You were not able to cut it” “As they would say” “At the CFA” “You had to go” “Onto the brute squad.”
“That’s a goddamn lie and you know it!” Clarkton could feel the rage through Homme’s helmet. “The academy wasn’t good enough for me! I work for the president now, so, so shut up!”

It had been 10 minutes. Rick came back into the basement, and Quigley stopped talking.
“Um,” said Rick, “So, that was just a really long hallway leading to a lavatory.”
Quigley rolled his eyes. “Well, duh, that happens to be the doorway to the secret lavatory, to be used only in the case of a revolt of the proletariat. That is not the door I was mentioning to you at such great lengths. Rather, it is this door I was speaking of.” He got up and moved the cardboard box he had been sitting on. In the ground there was indeed a door, padlocked and barred. And covered with a slab of concrete, which was, um, clear concrete, so you could still see the door through the concrete, and, um, you know what, shut up, shut up! “It is this door that is the obstacle to my dreams, my dreams of being in my tomb, of learning the knowledge of my forebears, of being in the presence of the lamp, of washing my hair in the underground streams and rivulets, of prancing both into and out of caves, of skipping both to and from the-”
“Hey Quigley? Could you hold up for tick. What exactly is this lamp you keep on mentioning?”
”Oh, that? The Lamp of Cybele? It just activates a supra-dimensional time warp, although I’m not really sure what happens after that. The president didn’t want anyone to use it, let alone know about it, so he sealed it up. But I have explained that to you already. Now let me regale you with more tales of my prancin-”
“That’s the lamp in my dreams! The circumstances are never exactly the same, but each time I activate the lamp, everything becomes purple, and then I wake up. I have to know more about the lamp. I have to see it. I must see it!”
“Well,” sniffed Quigley, his pompous speech deflated by Rick’s clamor, “apparently you don’t want to hear about prancing now do you? I’m sorry, but I no nothing more about the lamp. And this is all besides the point. How are you to get into the tomb?”

“Face it Clarkton, Mr. Starp had a gramphlon-sized mancrush on you! That’s why you got all those A’s!”
“Mr. Starp’s allotment of grade” “Wast based not on his sexual preferences” “But rather” “On the individual merits” “of each student” “and his understanding of” “the basic functions of espionage.”
“Well, when you put it like that!” Clarkton and Homme were still reminiscing about their days together at the academy. “You know what? I think you’re jealous. You wish you had all my fancy equipment right now. I can see it in your eyes, you’d do anything for my fantasmaloid rifle, wouldn’t you?” Homme dangled said object in from of Clarkton’s face. “Wouldn’t you!”
“If you hadst staid” “But another month” “At our schooling” “Twoudst realize that” “A true agent hast no need” “For your schoolyard toys.”
“Goddammit! Stop talking like that!”
A CFA ambulance crashed into the bounty hunters’ energy shield. Both sputtered and died.

(OP: Nate, February 1 2009)