Timefuck
by Karl Wogoblitz 

Basil Rubyquartz is being time fucked.

At first he finds himself a young man, cheating off the girl next to him on his kindergarten placement tests. The next moment he is a middle-aged man with a wife and daughter, both the same girl, and owns a nice home in the suburbs in the whitest quarter in New Orleans. In a blink he is on the Russian front fighting the Russians in World War II, a mistake which will get him chewed out by his commanders when informed he is supposed to be fighting the Germans.

The cause of these time fuckings is unknown to Basil Rubyquartz. If you must know, for the sake of the story, though Basil will never find out, it’s because of the split consciousness he suffers as a baby when he was dropped on his head. It is a purposeful attempt by Basil’s alcoholic mother to kill him and collect the insurance money, although never being familiar with the concept of insurance, she does not know a baby needs to be insured before you can collect for its death. Which is a good reason to never drink and watch a lot of Dragnet.

The bumping of the head on the tiled kitchen floor ignites a dormant section of Basil’s brain which plugs him into the timeline. It also has something to do with aliens, which I’m trying to keep from mentioning for the sake of an easy out if I need it. Let’s just say it’s the head thing for right now but don’t be pissed off if I amend that later.

Being plugged into the timeline creates an unusual distortion affect we call time fucking. What it means, scientifically speaking, is that a being’s experience of time as a linear creation is destroyed and time afterward becomes moments lived randomly, in one or two minute spans so as to be less confusing to mentally challenged readers, much like pieces of a puzzle being picked up arbitrarily instead of in order of which piece they’re connected to. It took me a long time to figure it out so let’s just accept it as fact and move on.

It is called time fucking rather than random non-linear time because even if it is scientifically explainable, to have it happen to you is more, in laymen’s terms, the equivalent of having a big nasty time sausage violate you. Without lubrication.

Other than the time fucking, Basil Rubyquartz is most notable as a completely unnotable figure. He’s what hack authors would call an everyman, so I’ll avoid that description. Basil lacks ambition because he knows at any given second the pain or joy he’s encountering can give way to another time fucking, putting him in an even more painful or joyful moment; it is not because, as certain fathers might suggest, he was born lazy. Time fuckings.

As you might have noticed, I will periodically introduce myself as a narrator character in order to inject a little bit of personal philosophy and because I think it’s funny. If this bothers you, go read Ray Bradbury or something, you unimaginative drone.

Let’s begin with Basily’s childhood. Which is to say, the first bit will be involved in his childhood, then we’ll jump forward quite a bit, then back a little, then maybe further forward. It’s all pretty easy to figure out when you get used to it. I wrote the first draft on the back of a check when I got the idea, so it can’t be too complicated. But here this feels like the end of the introduction. We’ll pick up again in chapter two, but don’t expect it to be more story and less rambling. This is what you get. Flip ahead to the end, you’ll know I mean business.

For more of this great story, buy Karl Wogoblitz’s
Timefuck The Bitcher in the City (Part 2)
What a big fat fake. A useless tool that ought to have his head popped by God’s very own fingers. I got to feeling a little nauseous in the stupid club so I went outside. By the time I was at the door I heard Mervin yelling that I looked familiar again, but I didn’t want to talk to him no more.

So Cold Blooded
Their first victim was Mary Ann “Carrot-Top” Cooper, a striking brunette cashier at a local burlesque house. Cooper had stayed late on June 5, 1963, taking inventory on the tassles, and was abducted from the parking lot out back by Knotts and Wilpott.

The Shoeshine Exemption
You had two kinds of people in the joint: The guys who took what life dealt them and the ones who didn’t. I was one of those guys who took what life dealt them. It was a pair of eights, a five, a four, and a two. Almost like it could be a decent hand, but not quite, enh, you know? I’m not complaining.

Study Hall Hood: A Hatty Pearst, Teen Detective Mystery
Hatty was nervous as could be. Her heart raced, and beat her liver by ten seconds in a photo finish. She tried to hold her breath as she heard the loud footsteps approaching.