He slid his dry tongue against the bottom of his top jagged teeth, and, of course, it bled, and it obviously tasted like it. Truth is, this was a daily ritual, something about how hope springs eternal with your own fluids in your mouth. It’s an archaic German expression, so it doesn’t matter. For the first time in the last hour, Emile Prattwell stopped everything. He was discombobulated by the apparent elephant in the room question: Would this be a completely different experience if he was a cannibal?
He stared at the wall, not once bothering to shut the fuck up, adding to his overwrought soliloquy. “If not for the untimely interference of World War II, which in my humble opinion, is greatly over-rated. It does not deserve to be called a great war! At best, it was an adequate war. Why the Spanish-American War of 1989 is not considered a great war is purely racist, one of the greatest injustices of history. Yet again, I digress when I should merely state my point, I will be the rightful ruler of the universe as soon as…”
A peculiar day was made more peculiar as the old man approached a fork in the road. He looked like my grandfather; same height, same hairstyle, same posture, but much less Asian, more Caucasian. It was possible he was mulatto, but it was hard to tell in the bright sunlight. This was for certain; they shared the same distinct odor somewhere between fish and bananas.
It happened again, and Tom The Tinkerer® was sick of it. For God’s sake, a grown-ass man should be able to take a nap without slipping through the time stream. Regardless, he dealt with it; he had to.