The Advancement of Mateo Matic: Circa 1921

« < » > Table of Contents

It was blistering cold once Arcadia apported them through time, to a new date, theoretically in the past. The group huddled together and looked around, seeing only snow, clouds, and the hint of civilization a ways away. They were all bundled in several layers, with the men wearing tall fluffy hats, and the women hoods and scarves. They couldn’t remember changing into their new clothes, which made them uncomfortable, but they all agreed to just let it go. Surely they changed themselves, and only later had their memories erased.

They started trudging through the snow, towards the part of some building they could see in the distance. It would get larger and smaller as trees blocked their view. Only once they were nearly inside it could they tell that it was some kind of village. The houses were built of logs, often with stone foundations. They were crude and deteriorating, but it was unclear what year this one. None of them knew what kind of time period to assume when looking at this kind of architecture. It was possible for these structures to exist in Mateo’s original time in the early 21st century. They didn’t even know what part of the world they were in.

People milled about in either misery or depression, or both. As destitute as they were living from the perspective of privileged people from what was likely the future, this didn’t seem like a normal day. There was an air of unusual calamity that the residents weren’t used to going through. They tried asking a few people what was happening, but they just ignored them and moved on, not wanting to stir up trouble.

“Perhaps they don’t speak English,” Serif proposed.

“We just have to try harder,” Lincoln said. “We have to figure out what we’re meant to be doing here; who it is we’re being asked to save.”

They kept walking slowly, careful to not make any sudden movements. This didn’t seem like all that small of a village, but it also looked like it was larger than its current population. People must have been moving away in recent times. At least that was what Mateo presumed, but what did he know? They saw a few signs on the buildings, and they were all in English, so that didn’t explain why no one was responding to them. No, it was because everybody probably knew everybody, and they were very obviously strangers. Finally, an elderly woman didn’t wait to be asked any questions. She offered to help them spontaneously.

“We have traveled a long way by foot,” Darko said to her. “We were hoping for a place to rest, and a warm meal, though we cannot pay.”

“But we could work for it,” Leona said. “We do not wish to take what we do not deserve.”

“The synagogue will have food,” the old woman replied. “You can help with the children there.”

“What is wrong with the children?” Serif asked.

She turned to lead them to the synagogue. “They’re dying.”

The group looked at each other in horror. Arcadia had not prepared them for the sight of dead children.

They entered the synagogue to find several children lying in cots, each with similar symptoms. They were sweaty and shaky. Some were coughing, others were vomiting, and others were doing both. It was an even more frightful to see than they thought it would be. Most were toddler age, with the youngest probably having been born in the last couple months, and the oldest being around eight.

“What disease it this?” Lincoln asked.

The old woman was gone. A younger woman was nearby, though. “Double pneumonia,” she said. “It can be treated, but we do not have the medicine for it. Not here. We have sent word, but I fear help may not come in time. Unless, that is, you are who we have been expecting.”

“No,” Leona said with a determined look on her face. “But we can help just the same.”

She reached into her bag and took out what she referred to as her second aid kit. It had all the basic of a first aid kit, plus a few things that didn’t generally come with it. Not everyone was educated enough to carry needles and antibiotics, but Leona was, so she always wanted to be prepared. Her kit had seen a boost in inventory after she recovered from having to cut off both of her legs during the Legolas tribulation. “Pneumonia is easy to treat where we come from,” she whispered to the group while inspecting her supplies. “Unfortunately, these children may be too far gone. I can quell all of their symptoms, but I can only cure one, maybe two.” She took out one of those plastic pill organizers and opened up every slot. Then she started dropping medicines into the slots to create individualized cocktails. She stopped in the middle of it and started thinking. “Serif, go find a mortar and pestle. Lincoln, ask someone for everything required to make tea. Darko, start helping keep the children comfortable. Give them water—boil more if you have to—ask them if they want more pillows, or more blankets, or whathaveyou.”

They all sped off to complete their tasks, leaving Mateo wondering what he could do to help.

“You have the worst job of all,” she said to him.

“What?”

“Like I said, I can only cure one for certain. The rest will have to pull through on their own, which they may not be able to do. It will be your responsibility to find out who it is we’re here to save.”

“Are we sure there is only one? Maybe we’re here for everybody.”

“Mateo, have you ever heard of a group of dozen and a half historical figures who all grew up in the same tiny village?”

“Well, no...but—”

“Your father was The Kingmaker, right? He saved famous people. There’s only one famous person here, and you have to figure which one of these children that is.”

“But we need to—”

“I’d like to save them all too, but Arcadia didn’t put us here to do that. If you want your father back, you have to do what’s being asked of you. Learn all of their names, and report them to the group. Hopefully, between the five of us, someone will recognize the right name.”

He hesitated.

“Go,” she ordered. “The faster I administer the medicine, the greater the chances we have that it works.”

Mateo did as he was told, and started asking the children’s parents’ their names. They weren’t particularly expressive, but they saw no harm in telling them this information. They could see that the newcomers were here to help, even if they didn’t understand how. Based on the names he was being given, everybody here was Russian, or something. He asked a couple of their birthdays as a sneaky way of finding out that it was probably around the year 1921. Why they were able to understand each other, Mateo didn’t know. They certainly didn’t know any Russian, and the villagers likely didn’t all speak English at the time. Arcadia must have put in place some kind of universal translator for them that also made signs legible, and made it so that no one realized people’s mouths as they spoke weren’t matching up with the translation listeners were magically hearing. None of the names sounded familiar until he reached the last one. A two-, maybe three-year-old was lying in his little cot. He was experiencing the same things as all the others, but wasn’t in near as much distress. He was a strong child, with an iron will who couldn’t be broken by phlegm or vomit. His name was Isaac Asimov.

Mateo had never read any of Asimov’s stories, but Leona absolutely adored him. As saddened as this ordeal was making her, she would be happy to learn that she would be the one to save his young life.

He went back to the group, and found them putting together the tea medicine the children would be given. When he told them the name, Leona stopped for a second, but then got back to work. “No sensible decision can be made any longer without taking into account not only the world as it is...but the world as it will be,” she quoted. “I believe he would be pleased that a group of time travelers gave him the life I know he lives following today.”

“Would you like to meet him?” Mateo asked.

“And say what? Goo goo, ga ga?”

“He can speak now,” Mateo responded with laughter.

“Never meet your heroes,” Leona said.

“You met Juan Ponce de León,” Darko pointed out before heading out with two cups of tea for the first two kids to be treated.

“Wait,” Leona said, noticing something peeking out of her bag. “What is this?” She pulled out a manilla envelope. Little somethings slid back and forth as she turned it around. She opened it up and took out a note from Arcadia.

You can either save only the one, or all of them. You choose, the note read.

“What’s the catch?” Leona asked out loud.

“There’s writing on the back,” Lincoln noticed.

Leona flipped it over and read it out loud. “The catch is there is no catch. Save ‘em all, Leona Matic.” She reached into the envelope and retrieved a small brown pill, which she held up in front of the light. After some thought, she dropped it into one of the cups that Darko was holding. She then reached in again and took out a second pill for the second cup. “Go on,” she instructed him.

“Are we sure this isn’t a trick?” Serif asked. “She might just be messing with us.”

“I can’t help them,” Leona said. “Maybe this little pill can.”

They gave each of the children their tea with the brown pill, except of Isaac Asimov. He received a regimen of antibiotics. As the day went on, the children started dying off, and it was looking like they would all be gone by the end of the week. Apparently Arcadia really was messing with them. Out of seventeen afflicted children, only Isaac Asimov survived.

« < » > Table of Contents

The Advancement of Mateo Matic: July 30, 1818

« < » > Table of Contents

Everyone was all smiles at breakfast when they awoke in 2145. The only person not smiling was Mario Matic, who no longer existed. Mateo’s once-mother, Aura wasn’t able to see the wedding, but at least his once-father did. He had always been more committed to developing a relationship with the son he barely ever knew, and couldn’t remember. There was a chance that Arcadia would take give them a break for a honeymoon, but they weren’t all that upset when they discovered this to not be true. Their chances hadn’t been that high.

After everyone was finished with their meal, Dar’cy, who was growing up so incredibly fast, stepped away from the group and started talking in monotone. “Mario Matic was also known as The Kingmaker. Like his sister, he would travel the world, saving people’s lives. But he wasn’t doing it in just a general sense. It was his job to ensure that certain future leaders and significant historical figures survived to realize their greatness. You wouldn’t believe how many times a president, or a politically-driven rapper, or an actual king was in danger of dying—or giving up on their dreams—before they could do anything with their lives. You will be adopting some of his responsibilities for the next three days. You’ll be given no instructions for any one of them, but I will allow you to dress for the occasion. Please proceed to the costume shop once you have finished cleaning up camp.

“What kind of clothing is this?” Mateo asked as he was deciding what to wear. He had to choose from a loose white button-up shirt and a different loose white button-up shirt.

“Looks like nineteenth century,” Lincoln said, admiring a black top hat.

“Lots of patches,” Darko pointed out.

Mateo put on one of the shirts, along with denim pants with braces. He topped it off with a straw hat. The ladies, Serif and Leona were wearing long dresses with long sleeves, and bonnets.

Dar’cy peaked her head in the temporary shop. “Lemme know when you’re ready.”

They found themselves standing on the edge of a field, next to a wooden building with a tall stone foundation. Horses were walking slowly around this large turny thing, being led by their owners. A young boy was walking up with his own horse, followed by a man who must have been his father.

“No one seems to have noticed our arrival,” Leona said with relief.

“Abraham!” one of the men called over to the boy. “You’ve come!”

“As always,” little Abraham replied.

The group of outsiders approached awkwardly, obviously unsure of what they were doing, or how to hold themselves.

“Can I help you, friends?” one of the men asked.

“We’re visitors,” Rutherford told him, “from New York. We would just like to watch.”

“Feel free to help,” the boy’s apparent father said, “we could always use it.”

“Don’t be rude, Turnham.” He approached the time travelers, took off his hat, and showed his hand. “Mornin’, I’m Noah Gordon. This here mill’s mine.”

“Pleasure to meet you,” Serif replied with a slight curtsy.

Mateo didn’t know what kind of names existed back whenever this was, so he tried to alter them. “I’m Matthew, this is my wife...Leona. My brother, Darrell; and our neighbors, Lincoln and Sarah.”

“Lincoln?” Noah asked, surprised.

“What?” the little boy asked while waiting his turn at the horsey turny machine.

“His first name is Lincoln?”

“Uhhh...” Mateo had no idea what to say to that.

“It’s a family name,” Rutherford said, shaking Noah’s hand. This was an excuse that apparently solved all problems anyone had with someone else’s name.

“Abraham, this man shares your name, but as his given name!”

“Oh, okay!” Abraham said.

“Holy shit, that’s Abraham Lincoln,” Mateo whispered to Leona.

“Perhaps you should just call me by my middle name, Isaac.”

“Sounds good, Isaac,” Noah said. “Stay as long as you’d like. Let me know if you’re thirsty.”

“We’re fine, thank you,” Serif answered.

The travelers moved a little closer so they could watch Abraham-frickin-Lincoln. He was uncomfortable with this, as anyone would be. He would grow up to be one of the most famous and influential U.S. presidents in history, but today, he was just a nine-year-old farm boy. When Arcadia said that Mario was the Kingmaker, she really meant it. What was going to happen today? Mateo asked the others whether they had any idea, but they didn’t. The majority of their knowledge on his history involved him freeing the slaves, and getting shot at the theatre.

Young Abraham Lincoln wanted to hurry this along, probably so he could get away from the creepers staring at him. “My dog could eat the meal as fast as the mill can grind it!” he yelled up to the people ahead, like a soccer mom at the post office. The travelers giggled at his impatience, while everyone else just didn’t care. They spent a long time there before it was Abraham’s turn to hitch his horse to the turny thingymabob. If only Samsonite were here to explain this to them, or Téa, who had grown up around this time in a past life.

Finally it was Abraham’s turn. He hitched his horse up and tried getting it to move the machine. “Git up, you ol’ hussy!” he yelled at it, desperate to prove that his impatience was not unfounded, and that he was better at this than the others. “Git up, you ol’ hussy! Git up—!”

The ol’ hussy took his words to be mightily insulting, and decided that she didn’t have to put up with it. She lifted her hind leg and struck Abraham in his head. He fell backwards to the ground, and did not move. Oh my God, he was going to die. The man who ended the Civil War was going to die on Mateo’s watch, and it would be all his fault.

Noah ran over and tried to wake Abraham up, but wasn’t able to. “Go get his father, Turnham,” he ordered to the man who had come with Abraham. “Go get Thomas.” He lifted the bloodied boy in his arms, and started walking away.

“How far is his house?” Mateo asked.

“‘Bout two miles,” Turnham answered.

“Darko, do you think you could...?” he turned around to ask his brother for help, but Darko was already running over to the horse. He placed his hand on the horse’s rope, and disappeared. It must have been nice to have his powers back.

Just after he was gone, Darko reappeared, coming down the road in a horse-drawn wagon. Another man was at his side, holding the reigns. Darko then took those reigns so the man could jump out and run over to his son. Darko had gone back in time to when the horse’s rope was still at home. He then somehow figured out how to coordinate it so Abraham’s father would show up just at the right time. None of the natives understood what had happened, but were also too preoccupied to question it at the moment. Darko, having just now learned how to drive one of these things, kept control of the horse so Abraham’s father could keep his son comfortable in his arms. He was still trying to wake him up as they drove off. The rest of the time travelers followed on foot.

By the time they reached the Lincoln log cabin, they expected him to be fully awake and recovering, but he was still unconscious. His father was convinced that he was already dead, and it didn’t look like he was going to make it. Darko pulled them to the side and said that he still felt a pulse, but that it was very faint. “There’s nothing we can do. Not here. Not without a doctor, and supplies. So I’m leaving.”

“Where will you go?” Serif asked.

“If Baxter isn’t coming to help us, then I’m going to find the only other doctor I trust. Leona, I’m going to need my bell.”

“You’re what?” Mateo asked.

“His bell,” Leona said, taking from her pocket what Mateo only knew as part of one of those things that doctors used to listen to heartbeats. It was the special object that Darko had given her so that she would never forget him.

After taking it from her, Darko approached Abraham’s father. “Thomas, I’m going to save your son, but in order to do that, you’re going to have to leave the room.”

Already having learned to trust him, Thomas Lincoln left the cabin and closed the door. Darko slipped off Abraham’s shoes, then took him by the shoulder, and disappeared. They both reappeared seconds later. “He’s gonna be fine,” Darko said, now holding Abraham’s shoes. “He just needs time.”

“How did you find his childhood shoes in the future?” Leona asked.

“I can help with that.” Thomas came back into the cabin, but was holding himself differently, not at all concerned with his son’s health.

“Thank you, Quivira,” Darko said to Thomas. “You know where to hide them.”

Before Thomas could leave once more, little Abraham started shaking in the bed. “You ol’ hussy!” he suddenly yelled. He then plopped back down and gathered himself.

As Lincoln was keeping his namesake company, Mateo pulled Darko to the side and asked what was happening. He had gotten better this weird time travel stuff, but this was confusing him so much.

“Abraham was dying, and nothing in present day could help him, so I had to take him to the future. I know a doctor, Mallory who spends her time treating human victims of time travel. I don’t mean like how Meliora helped Isaac with his time sickness, I mean people who get hurt because time travelers arrive and start changing things. I used the stethoscope to get back to her, which she gave to me years ago for this very purpose. She treated him in the 21st century, and then I used Abraham's shoes to get back here.”

“And where did you get his shoes?”

“Doctor Hammer works with this reality’s version of Gilbert Boyce, Quivira. She’s sort of the quantum leaper of the real world. She possesses other people the past, and helps others. She jumped into Thomas so she could hide her son’s shoes in a safe place. I then retrieved them in the future, and used them to come back here. It’s all very complicated, I know.”

Mateo watched from the other side of the room as Abraham Lincoln and Lincoln Rutherford were taking turns spinning the latter’s top hat on their fingers. “But bottom line is that he’s gonna be okay.”

“If the future tells us anything, then not really. But he’ll live until he’s meant to die. And before you ask, he never woke up. The Runners don’t have an 1810s isolation room, but he didn’t see anything anyway. He has no idea what we are.”

“Maybe we can jump to the 1860s and save his life again.”

“I doubt it,” Leona said. “We should go. I think our job is done.”

“Isaac!” Mateo called. “We’re leaving.”

Before getting out of the bed, Isaac placed the hat on Abraham’s head and flicked it so it wouldn’t cover his eyes. “Looks good on you.”

“Can I keep it?”

“That there hat is yourn,” Isaac answered.

Many believed Abraham Lincoln to have owned many hats, but a choosing one named The Weaver ultimately imbued the one that Isaac had given him with the power to transform into slightly different styles. It was really all the same hat that he wore his entire life, and he even had it with him at the moment of his death a half century later.

« < » > Table of Contents

Microstory 128: Donna Belmonte

Click here for the list of every Bellevue Profile.

The entire population of a small town in Iowa was aware of the fact that Donna Belmonte was a medical marvel. Learning of her ability had sparked a major overhaul of their attitudes. The once dying town was reinvigorated with a desire to stay together. Many volunteered their time and energy into renovating the old and decrepit flour mill. Donna had unwittingly brought everyone closer, and formed a strong community that simply could not be broken. When she was a child, her vermiform appendix became inflamed. Though fairly important to the immunity response to disease, it was technically possible to live without, so hers was surgically removed. Later that week, she went in for a follow-up visit with the doctor who discovered her appendix to be fully intact. It had regrown. Despite hesitation from her family, the doctor began gradual and relatively safe experiments on Donna’s body. Over time, they found it possible to extract any organ from her, and it would grow back on its own before she died from its absence. Furthermore, her blood type was unlike any other seen before. Her brother insisted that they call it Blood Type K, and the name stuck. Her blood and organs were 100% compatible with anyone else’s body. There was not a single case of rejection. As the years went by, Donna was treated like royalty. She was given an unlimited allowance, the nicest house of all, and a team of dedicated guards. When she became a legal adult at the age of 16, she began to pursue her ability at full force, spending the majority of her time in surgery. A group of citizens were charged with transporting her organs across the continent, while another was responsible for making sure that no one noticed that they were all somehow coming from the same person. Amongst protests, Donna joined Bellevue at a time when it was still in its relative infancy. They promised that their resources would allow her to use her gift at its optimum level. Her neighbors were forced to accept her decision, and even ended up abandoning their homes to form new lives in the previously only hypothetical town of Bellevue, with the hotel at its center.

Mr. Muxley Meets Mediocrity: Part II

Click here for original post.

Mr. Muxley sat impatiently in the passenger seat. “Why is this taking so long?”

“It’s a common land vehicle,” Monty explained. “It can’t even go a hundred miles an hour.”

“What’s a mile? What’s an hour?” Mr. Muxley asked.

“That bridge we passed a couple minutes ago is about a mile back that way,” Mervin said. “A minute is sixty times the length of time it takes for me to say...one mississippi. An hour is sixty times a minute.”

“I see,” Muxley huffed. “That is quite frustratingly slow.”

Mervin pressed the pedal to increase his speed by just a little. “We have things that go faster, like trains and planes. But this thing is cheap. We can’t all afford spaceships.”

“The spaceships we do have,” Monty furthered, “haven’t gone any farther than the moon, except for a few unmanned vessels. But it takes them a really long time either way.”

They were finally at their destination. They stepped out of the car and into the diner. There were a few other people in there. They took one look at the alien then went back to their meals. Despite having never seen an alien before, this was a ghost town, and people didn’t really care about anything. Monohon was small lake town that lived and died in the span of a century. In its place was a completely different city. A few decades ago, however, Monohon came back to life. If you drove on the streets, you would remain in Sammamish. If, however, you drove on East Lake Sammamish Trail while flickering your lights and keeping your radio on static, you would end up in Monohon. Half of the residents were dead; but half were alive, like Mervin. Why they chose to live there was kind of a mystery. Few people, Monty included, lived outside of the ghost town but were aware of its existence.

Miss Milly’s Mess Hall at the Mill was one of two major businesses in Monohon. The sawmill had burnt down and was rebuilt so many times, that people theorized that time itself eventually got used to the idea of the mill’s existence. Instead of waiting for someone to rebuild the town, it invoked the buildings on its own. The only people that worked at the mill were the ghosts. They never seemed to get tired. At the end of the day, they would eat dinner at the Miss Milly’s, and then eventually fade into oblivion. The next morning, they would reappear at the hotel and start all over again. On the weekends, they could be found fishing on Lake Sammamish. They would mouth words and pretend to talk to be polite, but were seemingly incapable of forming sounds. All the living residents worked at the diner, hotel, and post office. The train depot was completely out of use, but there were a few people, both living and dead, who wandered around and received payment to do nothing.

Mervin and Monty went over all this while they were waiting for their food, but Muxley was completely unimpressed by it. He shrugged his shoulders. “Yeah, it’s a pocket dimension. Whatever.”

“Is that what this place is called?” Mervin asked. “So, you’ve seen a ghost town before?”

“Yeah, of course. We have them all over the place. You were supposed to show me something interesting.”

Monty laughed. “Did we not tell you that we’re not really equipped to be tour guides of Earth?”

“No.”

“Oh, well. It should be pretty obvious. I thought we’d start with breakfast, and hopefully come up with something to try afterwards.”

“What does breakfast mean?”

The waitress set the plates down and smiled. “It’s when you eat food in the morning,” she said.

“Eat food?” Muxley asked.

“Yeah, you put it in your mouth and chew,” she said. “How else would you gather energy for the day?”

“We lather ourselves with the sap of the miulwebirkovel plant. Then we set our body on fire, and when all the sap has evaporated, we have enough energy for the rest of the week.”

The other three stared at him in silence. “We don’t have any...” Monty started to say.

“Miulwebirkovel,” the waitress assisted.

“...plants on this planet,” Monty finished.

“Well no, of course not,” Mr. Muxley laughed. “It only grows on Mekajs. But any sokugni class vegetation will do. I’m not picky.”

“We don’t have any plants that will help you if you set yourself on fire,” Monty revealed. “I hope you packed enough of your sap.”

“You’re telling me that you put objects in the same orifice out of which you speak every day?”

“That’s right.”

“Where does it go after that? How would it even evaporate?”

The two men looked away uncomfortably. The waitress went back to the counter and tried to forget the last five minutes.

“Answer me,” Muxley demanded. “What happens after you do this strange eating food thing?”

Two minutes later, Mr. Muxley burst out of the bathroom and ordered them to take him away from that wretched place. “I want to go somewhere I haven’t seen before and that doesn’t make me want to tear my ears off and erase my memories!”

Mervin sighed. “Let’s try the space needle,” he suggested. Click here for the next installment...

Mr. Muxley Meets Mediocrity: Part I

The magnificent mothership landed gently on the large mound of dirt in the middle of Cougar Mountain Regional Wildland Park. It tipped over and rested its edge on the grass below. The driver decided to leave it be. Or perhaps he didn’t really notice since the ship had some sort of self-contained gravity field. The creature slid the door open manually and fell out. The man and his mastiff who had been watching the whole thing while sipping a cool cup of milk and eating mulberries made no move towards it, but continued munching. The creature stood back up and sighed. It brushed itself off and marched directly to the man and his mastiff. They both stood and the man smiled as the creature said one word, “Muxley.”

“Good morning, Mr. Muxley. My name is Mervin Maddox and this is my mastiff, Mercy. The dog made a small bark that sounded more inquisitive than malicious.

“Muxley!” it repeated, slightly maddened.

“Okay, I get it. Me Mervin, you Muxley. Whatever. Do you want some mulberries?” The alien did not respond now that he realized his voice recognition systems had not been completely activated.

The other, much younger man who had been camping a quarter mile away now pushed his way through the Monterey Cypress trees and made his way to the group. “Good day, mates. I’m Monty Montgomery. Would you like some M&M’s?” The other two merely stared at him. “Okay…then how about a Mars bar? Marshmallow? Junior Mint? Milk Dud?”

The alien motioned for them to follow him and up they went into the ship. There was nothing in it but a small console in the middle and what looked like a fat guitar leaning against it. He picked it up immediately and began to pluck the strings with a plectrum. Once he started, flashes of lights appeared on the wall. He began slowly, then sped up, and then slowed down again. The music was beautiful. It made the guests feel at ease. Even Mercy the dog, who had managed to struggle up the mound and into the doorway, swayed back and forth in dance. After it was over, a drawer slid out of the wall.

The alien walked to it and took out two devices. The first looked like a miter attached to drumsticks with wires. The other resembled a large retro mobile phone. He put on the miter and placed the edges of the drumsticks to Mervin’s temples. Nothing happened for a few seconds and then Mervin understood completely. Without speaking, the alien had somehow conveyed what he wanted. Mervin took the other device and spoke into it, “A, B, C, D…” and continued until he had finished the alphabet. He pushed a button on it and spoke again, “Milky Way, Earth, human, land, multiple, North America, United States, English, Oregon, Bellevue, male, Mervin, forty-two, camping, fire, motorboat, Cellar Door.” He was done. Monty stared at him like he was crazy. The alien took back the recording device and played it back in his own ear. After repeating this step several times he tossed it back in the drawer with its companion and picked up the instrument again; playing one chord so as to close the drawer. The wall appeared to have never been broken.

The alien let out a massive sigh and finally spoke comfortably, this time in English. “I have come as a scout in order to make contact with your people. We discovered this planet yesterday and we are anxious to meet you all. You must take me to various locations so that I may better understand your culture.”

The two men looked at each other then looked at the dog for help. Unfortunately, the alien had picked the two least qualified men as his guides. Neither of them had been outside of King County. “We don’t really know where to go.” The alien turned his gaze to the floor, not quite knowing what to say. Mervin continued. “Look, Mr. Muxley, we—”

“My name isn’t Mr. Muxley.”

“Then what does Muxley mean?” Monty asked.

“It doesn’t mean anything.” He was becoming more impatient. “That must just be what I sounded like since you don’t understand our language.”

Monty realized that he had asked the wrong question. “Well, what is your name?”

The alien spoke out in a mass of misinterpreted and possibly mythical monosyllables that made the men’s minds feel like maimed monkeys meandering their way through a maze of monsters and mutants.

“Okay…well we’ll just maintain calling you Mr. Muxley.”

The alien did not seem pleased with this but obviously considered it less important than the task at hand. “Take me somewhere.”

“Well, it’s almost time for breakfast,” Monty said. “We could head down to McDonald’s and get some pancakes or something.”

“No,” Mervin protested,” we shouldn’t give him fast food. Let’s go to somewhere more sophisticated.”

Monty thought for a second and tried again, “okay then, how about Mooby’s?”

“That’s just as bad!” yelled Mervin. “The best place to get breakfast around here is Miss Milly’s Mess Hall at the Mill.”

“Oh, yes!” Monty’s eyes lit up. “They have the best muffins!”

“I agree,” Mervin agreed. “But their specialty is Melons. The owner’s daughter-in-law, Miss Minor, says they get their recipes from some restaurant in France.” The men grabbed their belongings while Mr. Muxley put a masking charm on his ship. They piled into the small moss green truck and drove off towards the ghost town of Monohon. Click here for the next installment...