Tomorrow Never Happens, part 1

Dearest Sirs,

If you're not prepared, become prepared. I recommend a can of motor oil mixed with Arbor Mist (Watermelon Flavor) with a twist of lime. The pretty young women of Bryn Mawr College call this a "Social Lubricant" and they guzzle it with gusto heretofore unseen outside of high-level political circles. So grab your Social Lubricant and find a large leather armchair into which to sink. And sink you shall, as I reveal what I've learned. The time-line confuses even myself, but do not be alarmed. All events recorded here happened when they happened, not when the rest of the world observes them to have happened.

I stepped outside on a brisk and sunny Labor Day morning to air out my crotch. The breeze was frisky that morning, playing its fingers around my delicate parts. I waved at the gardeners tending to the potted plants at the restaurant next door, and they waved back. A dog, small, I think, barked somewhere to the south, and I instinctively turned. The distraction worked, because by the time I turned back around, there were six children in World Wrestling Federation costume, waving crowbars, all less than a yard away. I crumpled to a fetal position. They surrounded me. One, or maybe more, worked me into a burlap sack, and I felt them heft me into a wagon. The bumps in the sidewalk made my skull crack against the floor of the wagon once every yard. I used the bumps to estimate how far the wheeled me. I counted 3,592 bumps. That's nearly two miles, for those of you with a calculator.

They helped me up and cut a hole in the burlap for me to poke my head out. The desert surrounded me. The vast, sweeping horizon was punctuated only by distant dunes, and the six stumpy bodies arrayed in front of me. One unzipped his fly. Out curled a deformed, shrunken man. As he raised a tiny microphone to his mouth, I recognized him immediately as television personality and sweepstakes mastermind Ed McMahon.

"Ahhh!" He moaned as he inhaled deeply, stretching his arms outward like a young Elvis testing out a new nudie suit. "You are the man, the man of the hour! Yes!" He pumped his fists as he said yes. "Yes! Yes!" Then he nodded and the other five children walked away into the desert. I trembled before this man-penis. "You have a duty to your country, you must prevent yesterday. The envelope taped to your chest explains it all. Yes!"

At that, he curled back into the short pants of the child, who zipped up and said something under his breath into a walkie talkie, then walked away after the other children.

The sun was setting, and I sat still.

When the whir of a prop plane came closer, I searched the sky, but against the deep twilight I saw nothing. The whir finally grew to a deafening crescendo, then cut out to a sputter and stopped entirely.

"You there! Come over, and drink!"

I struggled out of the sack and walked, taking care to step carefully on the shifting sands beneath my feet. Ahead of me I saw a match strike and flare up, briefly lighting the burly faces of two men. They looked to be lobster fishermen who have lost their boat.

"Ah, and there's the man of the hour. My name is Ernst, but you can call me Papa, and this here is Julian. We've stopped for a smoke. Care for a Backwoods? They're maduro." He rolled his Rs with affectation and held out a torn open packet that reeked of tobacco and palm sweat. I accepted his offer, and the one he called Juilan struck another match. As I puffed, I looked over the cigar end at the men in front of me. Papa was stocky, thickly bearded and wearing hip waders and a filthy red t-shirt. Julian was taller, in brown trousers, an equally filthy orange t-shirt and rumpled top hat. When my cigar was lit, Julian used the remainder of the match to light a lantern and I could see the aeroplane behind them. Pocked with rust, and decorated with the legend "Miss A Sippy" and a crude painting of a catfish-mermaid, amply bosom-ed, it stood tall over both men and me.

"Ernst, he's cold. You're cold, aren't you lad? And I'm sure he's got the hunger. Deep hunger. For a huge cookie perhaps, or some jerky. In either case, we've got work to do." He puffed impatiently on his own cigar as I nodded and sucked deeply.

"Right-o, my brother." Ernst tossed his still burning stub deep into the night and stepped into the plane. "All aboard!"

We flew into the dawn light, as I gobbled jerky, Corn Nuts and washed it down with Pepe Juice. Nervously, I peeled the letter off my chest, the tape yanking small hairs out by their roots. I unfolded it on the floor in front of me and read while Julian and Ernst sat up front, flying and farting and inventing lewd limericks. What follows is a verbatim translation of the original Semitic language mixed with Spanglish that the letter was written in (how I translated ancient Semitic will be discussed later).

"To whom it may concern. You are the keymaster. Seventeen years ago today there was an incident, the details of which are unimportant, save that it created the voidbeast known to those of us in our sect as AL HOG. We've been monitoring the activities of the AL HOG from afar, and have determined that yesterday, it became sentient. You must stop this from happening. How you do it is not important, but it is important that you do it. Please confirm your success by logging onto The Internet using this free 30-day trial of AOL (my fingers followed the edges of the 3.5" disk attached to the letter by a wad of Bubble-Eez Bubble Gum). You can find us in the Sports and Hobbies portal, or contact us in the General Lobby Chat Room #69."

There was no signature, a fact that haunted my dreams as the plane bobbed through the air towards a destination I did not know.

MORE ACTION, MORE ADVENTURE! COMING NEXT IN THE UPCOMING ISSUE OF "TOMORROW NEVER HAPPENS"!