“Run, Marty! Run! Save yourself!”
“Doc, it’s just a rubber chicken. What’s the deal?”
“That glare, that intensity…”
Arms shrugging, cogitating on the inductive idea that frenzied exposure to Plutonium had finally done the old man in, Marty – of that fabled clan McFly – tried to get a handle on the volatile situation. “Let’s just calm… Ahhh! Ahhh!”
“I told you. Leave it. That chicken…”
“The rubber ducky of dominant duress and devilish disorder,” went he of the agitated avian arsenal, “holds more in its backdoor belly…”
“My God, Marty, it’s got a bar of soup! The cruelty! The excess inhumanity!” The batty scientist dove for his teenage companion and flew off the page in an effluvium of noxious fumes; pants taking the brunt of the assault.
And that, in a rather bizarre nutshell, is how I became the proud owner of a time machine. All aboard! Down the darkened corner, a renowned Time-Lord halted his step and did an 180º, whistling Dixie, minding his own business and searching for a new looker waylay into his blue box.
Now, let’s see. Pedal to the metal. Down the space-time continuum, sanity tied up in our trunk with a nasty gash on its forehead. Tires screeching, flames billowing from below the rims, full orchestra in the background; the stuff of epics. Is that Huey Lewis trying to hitchhike? Never mind. Windows up, past the psychedelic sixties. Barreling across No-Man’s Land, a soccer ball bouncing off the rearview. A mad dash through a few drab and dreary centuries. Bye-bye. Sanity banging on the trunk, calling out for his mother. Italy during the Renascence; the vogue awareness that “Al Fresco” was simply code for “let’s get our freak on.” Genitals as far as the eyes can see. Pit-stop along the way for some Lysol and a healthy dose of Aspirins; the Black Plague a right bastard. Sidestep that controversial period with the giant Ts. Selfie with Cleo. An orgy or two with my buddy Caligula… and, look, a Velociraptor just crossed my path. Shift reverse, gone a bit too far. backtrack…
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