A hologram that appears to be glitching by the looks of that jacket."Home? Shit, did I fall asleep in somebody else's house again? Or..." I trailed off, getting a glimpse of what should have been me in the mirror, but was instead a haggard old housewife air-punching a bathtub, "...somebody else's body?" "I'm afraid it's worse than that. Last night you broke into our research facility and were accidentally sent back in time. You're now leaping backward into the past, occupying the bodies of the people here. You have to fix something that's gone wrong in each of their lives to correct the timestream and get back home. This body is... let's see: Ah, Millicent Howdry. She's a housewife from Michigan." "I can't fix having a retard name or being a woman." "That is... horrible. No, your husband is an abusive ex-con. Ziggy here says he has to get what's coming to him before you can leap out." "Ha ha, you read
That's right: Blinky reference. You're welcome."Yes." he said, peering down at the tiny screen and rattling off the information he saw there. "Ziggy says he's been abusing Milli for 10 years and she doesn't have the courage to leave him, so simply standing up to him and reporting him to the police should theoretically put the timestream back..." His voice trailed off into the distance as I opened the bathroom door and stepped quietly out. I could hear the husband stomping around the kitchen, an empty gin bottle thrown down in anger on the hallway floor. "... and that, again purely theoretically, will facilitate the next leap forward." Al finished right as I came back through the doorway. "What did you...? Where the hell did you just go?" "Family Circus said to sodomize that guy with a liquor bottle, so I did that. We're good. Let's roll." "You did what?!" "Yeah, your PDA was all 'give him what he deserves' so I just cracked him with a frying pan, used some dish soap for lube and then I used kind of a twisting motion, like inserting a corkscrew to really jam-" "Good lord, no! You were supposed to report him to the police! You can't just-" he stopped short, noticing that the room had suddenly begun flashing and blurring around him. "Wait, that worked? What?! It was 'restraining order' ORÂ 'forced sodomy'?
"Shit being high feels fantastic! Four things, though: 1. Get your hands off my shit 2. Let's dance! 3. Let's wrestle! 4. GO!""I don't think Ziggy means you should-" "Hey check it out! He had a baggy hidden in his sock. Must've forgot about it," I told Al, already cooking down the stuff. "There's no way shooting heroin is going to fix the fucking timestream and ARE YOU KIDDING ME," the world started to run together again, little lightning bolts began to arc from my fingertips, one of which was prominently raised and playfully dancing in Al's direction as I faded away. It was the middle one.
The glowing time shit. Very important that it keeps glowing, or whatever."Right. Timewater. Aces. Here, let me show you what I mean: What's the exact request this time?" "Fine. You're Henrietta Paulding and you love your husband very much, but you feel you're losing his interest. According to this, he leaves Henrietta tonight. If you don't find some way to prevent that, she kills herself. Basically, you have to rekindle their affection. Show them they still love each other." "No, see, you added that last bit. What I heard was 'have to keep a dude interested in his boring wife.' Is the guy here?" "Yeah, he's in the next room, but Ziggy says that-" "Sure sure. Tell Garfield that I got this one. Hey honey?" I yelled down the hallway. "Yes dear?" answered the weary, toneless voice. "How's about we have a three-way with that hot friend you've always secretly wanted to bone that I'm assuming I have?" "Wha- FUCK YES!" There was the sound of a chair tipping over, followed by sprinting footsteps and some frantic fumbling for the phone. A look of heartbreak passed over Al's face as I pointed at the little zig-zags of electricity cropping up all around me. "Can you see them, Al? Can you hear them? Listen, Al: They're talking. They're saying 'suck dicks, Al.'" "This is not the will of a loving God!" He protested. "SUCK DIIIIIIIIIIIiiiiiiiiiii
I'm pretty sure he built it just for this occasion. How can you leave that hanging?
Ha ha! So, you workin' hard or hardl- wait... no that's seriously alcohol poisoning. Call an ambulance.When the door clicked shut, Jack swiveled his chair to face the windows. He hadn't shaved today. Yesterday either. It was difficult to get motivated, some mornings. Outside the glass, a small black bird leapt from its perch on the sill and took quiet wing, tilting madly in the whirling eddies before rocketing downward out of view. For a long, peaceful moment, Jack contemplated flight. "Mr. O'Brien?" The intercom buzzed. "Yes, Janice?" Jack replied automatically. He closed his eyes and willed all the solace of silence to seep into his cells, to soothe his fraying mind. "Daniel O'Brien is here. He says he needs to see you. He's very insistent. And sir? He's got a... a box with him. It appears to be hissing." "Send him in," Jack sighed, his fists briefly balling, but ultimately lacking the strength to clench. "Jackatoa! What's crackin' homeslice? Listen," DOB began, waddling into the room lugging the unwieldy, rattling, makeshift cage, "I got a quick but possibly life-threatening question for you: What do you know about possums? Is it a lot? I hope it's a lot."
How did these hyper-specific tropes spread so quickly?
The Hollywood rumor mill has been playing games with celebrity deaths for at least a century.
Most rich kids just want to be pop stars.