Hey Brain..

Hey Brain.

What?

Why are we so sluggish this weekend?

Because you allowed your sinuses to be filled with goo.

What, like pudding goo? Are you telling me I have tasty pudding goo up my nostr-

No, you idiot. why do you think you have been blowing your nose for days?

I just assumed it was some sort of genetic defect. Maybe a reaction to our environment?

...What are you talking about?

I don't know. Anyways, so you are saying we have a cold?

Yes.

And we can't do anything about it?

Aside from sleep, tea, and throat drops/lots of water, not really.

Hmm. So this would explain why we didn't work on my novel much this weekend...

Yeah well, we'll have to play catchup next week for missing a weekend.

..Wait. Why aren't we working on the novel right now instead of writing this tripe?

Because we don't have the energy to work on the novel. Writing this crap equals the energy a teabagger exerts to complain about government spending while signing his social security checks and Medicare prescription drugs.

Ouch. Very ouch.

Go to sleep, you goon. We'll feel better tomorrow.

We'd better. Or someone's gonna pay...

...Like Hitler?

Exactly. He'll pay for this cold!

...Extra Nyquil for you tonight...

Skipping straight to Vincent # 3.

Vincent Fullerton # 3

After using the silver disk, and shimmying my way back to my own reality, the scientists had gobs of questions for me in the debriefing room. Well, the debriefing room was the same room the machine was in. So I suppose it’s the All-Purpose room. Or a kitchen pantry of sorts.

Speaking of rooms, I never could figure out why big corporations give their conference rooms boring names. “We are meeting in the Grand Canyon Room.” “Meet me over in the Sedona Room.” “Hey, you heard the meeting got moved to the Sun Valley room, right?” If you are going to name them something, why not name them after superhero comic figures? I’d much rather have a meeting in The Dude’s room, or the Gloveslapper room. Or why not go all out and name your conference rooms after sexual reproductive organs?

Truth be told, I just want my boss to send out an electronic mail that said we are having a meeting in the Clitoris room, and next Thursday the meeting would be in the Gigantic Penis room, because it has twelve chairs instead of a measly six. Bigger is better, my boss always says.

Ok, sorry. Tangent again. So yeah.. The Scientists! Right. Their questions. They bombarded me with their queries almost immediately after I reappeared into my reality, which was remarkably annoying. A cute lab assistant checked my blood pressure and pulse, while the scientists in the room blabbered on, talking over each other in order to be the one question I heard first. Most of them were pretty standard fare, but the ones I remember specifically were:

“Was your alternate self more or less like you right now?”

“How was the air quality? Did the other reality have trash receptacles?”

“Did you need the lab coat to protect you from acid rain, or people trying to ejaculate on you?”

“What sporting events did they participate in?”

“Did they have televisions, and if so were they holographic like ours?”

“Did women wear pants?”

Admittedly, the last question threw me off a bit, along with the lab coat question.

Hmm… On second thought, with the exception of one or two questions asked, these sure as Hell shouldn’t have been standard fare questions coming from scientists. A few weeks into the experiment, I started to realize that being a scientist at the Area 51 Research, Laboratory and Theme Park was a very lonely job, but even then the quality and wide range of questions never shocked me until now while going over my e-notes to write this book.

Jesus, I should have punched the scientist who asked me if I need the lab coat to protect myself from roaming jack-offers with nothing better to do with their free time. I still might punch him, go track him down and kick him in his groin. If you read this, Mr. Condom Coat jackass, I will find you. Better start running now.

So aside from those bizarre questions, I answered what I could. Even answered the bizarre questions. Sort of.

“No, Vincent Fullerton number 2 was quite different because of the way he was raised. His mother died giving birth to what would have been his younger brother when he was twelve years old. This affected his entire life, and he never recovered from the tragedy. Completely different from my life, as my mother is still alive, and I am an only child. The air quality was tangy, quite tasty if I don’t say so myself. No massive air scrubbers, so I could taste the pollution. No, you sicko! I did not need my lab coat. They have many of the same sports as us, with the exception of Hoverball. They did not have personal hovercrafts, so that game would never happen there until they do. The only television I saw was at the bar, and it was not holographic. It was what the guy called an LCD plasma television. And yes, the women wear pants, sicko scientist number 2!”

After the cute nurse was done checking my vitals, I thanked her, stood up and stretched. “How soon can we be ready for reality number three?”

James Riker stuck his head above his holo-monitor. “Twenty minutes. We need to calibrate the machine for the next reality, and make sure the environment is safe for you. Probably a good time to go the restroom, maybe grab some Little Debbie Oatmeal Pie cookies in the break room.”

“You scientists and those damn cookies. Did that bitch Debbie blackmail you into eating them? I see everyone eating them here!”

“I have no idea what you are talking about,” James flatly stated rather unconvincingly while shoving another oatmeal snack cake into his mouth.

I shook my head and walked off to go relieve myself and avoid the cookies.

While on the toilet in the men’s room, I finally had some peace and quiet to reflect on what I had just done.

Holy shit. I visited another reality, another timeline from my own. I smiled and laughed out loud, causing the person who just entered the bathroom to cough uncomfortably to announce his presence. The visitor continued to clear his throat when I didn't stop chuckling, and then exited rapidly after finishing his business.

It was remarkable enough that the machine worked in the first place. It was almost unreal seeing another reality. And to top off the near-insanity, I had a beer with my alternate self at a restaurant called Chotchkie’s. I witnessed how my life could have been remarkably different from the current path taken. My mother was never a janitor, and my father was never a teacher. My mother is still teaching 7^th grade Alien Science at Surly Dwarf Middle School in Henderson, Nevada. Oh, and it’s just my opinion, but the Clark County School Board should have NEVER let the elementary kids pick the names of the new schools being built in the 1990’s. On top of Surly Dwarf, there’s Tyrannosaurus Rex High School, Robin Hood Elementary, Chocolate Chip Cookie Junior High, Homework Sucks Middle School and Screaming Badger High School. Just terrible.

Sorry. Another unnecessary tangent.

My mother kept me going after my father passed away when I was in 11^th grade at Screaming Badger. My father suddenly became ill, and it was discovered he had testicular cancer. Cancer is something that can be cured in this reality, but it has to be caught in the early stages. If it isn’t caught quickly, it can be deadly. Sadly, for my father it wasn’t caught early enough.

It was my mother’s strength and will that made me finish high school, and her resolve that got me through college. It was her stubborn will to not accept failure that drove me to this point in my life. I owe her everything.

That was of course, the biggest difference between Vincent #2 and myself. We both had parents die on us, but it was surprising to learn it was his mother that died, and to see his father crumble under the weight of his grief. His father never recovered in any capacity, and it bled down into his son. Drugs, truancy, and a life of crime that caused #2 to never go to college, never amount to anything but a janitor.

The emotional impact #2’s story had on me was shocking, as I sat there on the toilet. I expected to hear fascinating stories, discover sights not seen before, and learn a thing or two about myself, but the sadness I felt for #2 was almost indescribable. It was something I did not expect at all.

Eventually, my legs became numb from sitting on the toilet too long, so I finished my duty and washed my hands with the antibacterial foam, and walked back to the lab to get ready for the next reality, and Vincent #3.

A New Start to a New Story

This is what I have so far. Off to a funny start, I hope. Huzzah!

Since this book will be sold throughout numerous realities, thanks to my agent who was willing to work with me to contact publishers by using a new invention, Alternate Reality Mail (ARM,) I suppose I should explain who I am, why I wrote this book, the world I exist in, and how the machine works that allowed this book to come to fruition.

To start off, the reality I exist in is one of fairly peaceful times. Corporal punishment has been outlawed in numerous countries, my country included. I live in the United States of America, a country located in the Northern Hemisphere on Earth. We have a woman President for the first time in American history, Ellen Kennedy. Her father was a successful two-term president in the 1960’s. She has become the most popular President the country has ever had, and her third term appears to continue that trend. She has brokered peace between Israel and Palestine, progressed scientific research beyond fossil fuels and normal scientific conventions, and has successfully sent Astronauts to Mars. Impressive as that has been, she has done all this while ending the partisan politics that nearly ruined the political system, kept the federal budget under control, and the private sector in check with regulatory policies. Needless to say, I am very impressed with her work so far.

I live in Las Vegas, a fairly normal city that prospers off tourism thanks to its geographical proximity to the Area 51 Alien Research, Museum and Theme Park. The drive along the Elvis Presley Memorial Hover-Byway from the park to Las Vegas is filled with alien-themed restaurants, bars, and the occasional strip joint. I went once when I was a kid, but I have not returned since then. I have heard their roller coasters are starting to defy gravity, as the Scientists discover more about the alien technology that has crashed on Earth throughout the years. They have used their inventions, along with government funding, to further the cause of science and entertainment.

Las Vegas fills its hotels with incoming visitors going to the park, and the occasional traveler that ventures into Utah, the landlocked Mormon-run country, to visit the wilderness that hasn’t been destroyed by the Mormon initiatives to mine and strip the shit out of Nature for any remaining resources. I visited a village called Cedar City once. The Mormons are a nice enough people, but their isolated nature, lack of scientific progress and religious teachings have caused them to fall behind the rest of the continent in nearly every aspect. While in Cedar City I visited a Creationist Museum, which details how the Mormons believe the Earth was created. My favorite part was the splendidly creafted set of Jesus Christ, pale and with blonde hair for some reason, riding a dinosaur with a saddle on it. I laughed out loud at the absurdity of it, upsetting the staff as I pointed and chuckled for ten minutes. Eventually they politely told me to leave. I grabbed some flyers-one titled “Why Your God is Wrong-“ and left guffawing until I reached the Nevada border.

Sorry, going off on a tangent a bit.

I studied English and Journalism at the University of Nevada-Las Vegas, graduating in 2001 A.D. I have worked as a reporter for a local free paper called the Weekly Worthless News ever since graduation. We generally report on nonsensical stories about ghosts, fabricate satiric pieces on local government, and convince readers that Vampires and Werewolves exist. It’s a fun job, but not one that lends towards award-winning journalism. I have tried to get jobs with the National Broadcasting Radio, a public radio station, and the real paper in town, The Las Vegas Gazette, but have not won over anyone yet at either place. When I heard about the machine, I threw myself into being the first reporter to use it. After all, scientists and their fellow brainiacs can’t write worth a damn when it comes to writing interesting prose. Have you ever read Brock Newton’s “An Essay on the Nature of Frogs, and their Amphibian Counterparts?” Of course you haven’t. I have, and reading it is as boring as watching bowling on television, or playing the new video game, Virtual No Life in 3D. I don’t understand how anyone can play that game, or watch bowling on television.

The machine I am talking about is the Alternate Reality Portal, which is a terrible name for such a momentous machine. They should have called it The Tremendous Reality Machine of Awesomeness. But I digress. The portal was created based on years of studying alien technology and understanding their blueprints for engines that travel faster than light, and machines that can bend reality into other forms. A major breakthrough was recently unearthed a year ago, and combined with modern science, they rebuilt and fixed the machine for human purposes. When they turned on the machine, they thought it would be some sort of fast-travel system between planets or galaxies.

Boy, were they wrong. What they created could warp you into alternate realities. Not only that, but it would track down your alternate self-if they existed in that reality-and let them know their alternate self was coming to visit!

No one understands how that is possible, but there is a lot we don’t understand about alien devices. All I knew was that I needed to use it.

So I wrote a letter to the Commission of Off-world Creations and Knowledge (or C.O.C.K if you prefer) and begged, pleaded and whored myself out to be the first non-scientist to use the Alternate Reality Portal.

Something I have had floating through my head

"He was a drunken wanker. He was obnoxious, hadn't showered in days, and managed to smell like pickle juice for whatever reason. I wanted to punch him right in his squidgy face, pull his shirt over his head, and give him a titanic wedgie. But I couldn't. He was me. Number 37, to be exact. Violent acts against onesself in other realities is punishable by a hefty fine and time in the Public Sarcasm Booth. The public is not funny, and mixes sarcasm with ironic punishment too frequently. Having endured this punishment once already to my chagrin, I had to think of other options. I So I bought him a scotch, shook his hand and stole his car keys so he couldn't drive home." --Gus

Just for fun. No updates on my novel, aside from massive amounts of research being done, and questioning how far I want to take my story, knowing that it will end up being so remarkably controversial.

Anyways, there you go. Huzzah!