Diary of a Space Pirate Introduction and Housekeeping

So this is technically last week's story. Which means I should have another one posted by Saturday. Let's see how well that works out, shall we? I like epistolary stories... well I like writing them anyway. I like unreliable narrators. I like writing with someone's bias other than my own. This story also has a lot of jargon. I love jargon. I love making up tidbits about fictional worlds and having characters talk about them as if they were real.

Hey remember last week's story? The one about the salesman? There will be more of it someday. I just got a little pressed for time and last week the imaginary deadline of Saturday night that I make for posting my stories meant a lot more to me than it did this week. So I will finish it someday, and it will probably be as underwhelming as the first part.

In my defense for this story being posted late, I would like to say I have been doing a lot of non-short story writing lately (specifically screenwriting), and because it's generally of a more time sensitive nature, it comes first.

Anyway, I hope you like this week's (and by that, of course I mean last week's) story. It involves space and pirates and diaries. I don't want to say too much more, because it involves precious little else and to say more would make reading the story unnecessary.

Diary of a Space Pirate

March 18, 5035

I've decided. I'm going to do it. I 'm going to become a Space Pirate. This decision has been a long time coming, but I feel confident about it. This is the right thing to do. Tomorrow morning, I'm heading down to the Space Dock, I'm going to find the surliest band of interstellar buccaneers I can find, and I'm joining up. I've spent 22 years on this station and I'm tired of it. I'm tired of the monotony. I'm tired of doing the same thing every day. My new life starts tomorrow!

March 19, 5035

Today was the worst! And I'm still not a Space Pirate! I couldn't make it down to the Space Dock this morning because I had to help Mom change her radiation filter, which should've only taken 10, maybe 30 minutes tops, but she had the wrong requisition form, so when I got to the Supply Depot, they gave me the wrong part. I didn't figure this out until after about 15 minutes of trying to get the filter in the slot. So I had to take the part back, get a new form from the Supply Chief, who gave me all kinds of shit about making sure the forms are right before processing them. Then when I got back to the Supply Depot, they were closed for lunch, so I had to wander around the commissary for, like, half and hour waiting for them to get back. While I was doing that I saw Jenny. She was with Dale.

When the Depot opened up again, I got the part, went home and got it installed. Of course by the time that was done, the battle station alarm started sounding, so I had to go man an ion turret to help repel a fleet of Keldraxon raiders (which took forever)! Anyway, when the all clear sounded, it was about 5:45, and all the good pirate ships would've left the dock at that point. So I just went down to the Rec Deck and played some Sky Ball with a bunch of drunk Lajildans. They stunk, both at Sky Ball, and literally. I guess bathing is a concept that they haven't really embraced as a species. I know the Cultural Neutrality Act says we're not supposed to directly interfere with other species' way of life, but seriously, soap never killed anyone. Anyway, tomorrow, I'm becoming a Space Pirate.

March 20, 5035

Good news on the Space Pirate front. I didn't make it down to the Space Dock again today, but while I was in line to get my repeater carbine (the Keldraxon's snuck a battalion of Infiltrator Cyborgs into the station somehow... lame!), I ran into Landon Drangelo. He was back on Station after doing a couple hauls of Long Cordine with the Space Force, and he said while he was out in the dark, they worked with a smuggler named Paul who once flew with the Blue Armada, the scourge of the 8 Free Spaces. Apparently Paul used to be really hardcore Blue and told all kinds of crazy stories about his time as a pirate. Anyway, Landon said Paul would probably be stopping by the station in a couple of weeks to get some work done on his ship and Landon said he'd introduce me!

This is great news! I can't think of any band of pirates better to join than the Blue Armada. They practically invented space pirating. I don't want to get too excited, Landon said he's been out of the game for a while, and it's just a meeting, but still... If I can show Paul that I'm good Space Pirate material, maybe he can point me in the direction of a recruiter and I could get on one of the smaller ships, like the Mallard or Rusty Pickles... or the Silver Lady. How awesome would that be? No. Small steps. I'm not going to get on the flagship right off the Station... but what if I did? I'm too excited to sleep. This is happening!

March 22, 5035

I'm trying to think of things I could do to impress Paul. I want him to see me and think "This kid should be a pirate." I thought about getting a tattoo, but I think I want to get my first tattoo on ship or in prison, I think that will make it more meaningful. I have started dressing more piratically though. I went to the Clothing Outlet and picked out a vest. It's pretty dashing if I do say so myself. I've also started making a hat.

Oh, when I was at the Clothing Outlet, Jenny was working. She acted like she didn't see me, but I know she did because she was the one who checked me out. I told her I was going to be a Space Pirate and then I asked her if Dale had ever been a Space Pirate. She didn't have anything to say to that, but I could see in her eyes that she was really regretting dumping me. Well it's too late for her. When I'm off jetting around the Lester Quadrant, I'll have a girlfriend in every port and none of them will be Jenny.

March 24, 5035

Only a few more days until Paul gets here and I have a big decision to make; robot monkey or robot parrot. The monkey seems like an obvious choice. It has hands so it can pick things up like credit chips, or pistols, or bottles of rum, but the parrot... that's pretty quintessentially pirate. I can teach it all kinds of phrases and songs. Plus my shoulders aren't very broad, so I think a parrot would fit better. A monkey would just make my head look small by comparison. Although I could teach the monkey to pick pockets. But a parrot can fly. It's a hard choice.

Ok, well I've got to go, it sounds like the Keldraxons are attacking the station again. Those guys are the worst.

March 29, 5035

Paul didn't show up today but I really wish he had. He would've got to witness a pretty piratey display. I was walking through the engineering deck, taking my newly finished hat for a test run (it looks really good), and I saw Dale eating lunch with some other engineering techs. He saw me too because he said something like, "Nice hat, Kyle". At first I thought he was being serious, it is a nice hat, but then it occurred to me that he was being sarcastic, still, I thought it'd be better to avoid any unnecessary conflict, so I just kept walking. But Dale didn't stop talking. "What's it supposed to be, a loser cap?" At that point I knew he was trying to insult me, I mean I'm sure Jenny had told Dale about our encounter from the previous week at which point I thought I made clear my intentions of being a Space Pirate, so really there's no way he could've been ignorant of what the purpose of the hat was. I turned around to face Dale and let him have it; "This is a Space Pirate hat." That shut him up. I was the clear victor of that conflict. So I walked off, knowing that I had gotten the better of him. Then one of his idiot friends, butted in. "I'm pretty sure it's a loser cap," he said and they all laughed. But I laughed last.

After they had all gone back to their engineering terminals, I summoned a maintenance bot to wax the floor outside their hub, so when their shifts ended three hours later, they probably slipped and slid all over the place.

March 33, 5035

Well Paul finally showed up. He was not what I expected and to be honest, I'm not sure if he ever really flew with the Blue Armada. I mean, he kind of looked like a pirate, but he didn't have any tattoos, and I don't think he'd recognize a quality robot parrot if one released it's refuse oil all over his shoulder, which, incidentally mine did, twice. Landon and I met him at a Beverage Allocation Center close to the docks and they chatted for a bit. It was pretty crowed because of the March 33 Celebrations (Happy Border Day by the way. Fight On Ye Stalwart Longshippers!) so it was hard to carry on a decent conversation, but when it came time for me to ask him about being a Space Pirate he just laughed at me, which I thought was rude, even for a pirate. Anyway, I bet he doesn't know anyone in the Blue so he acted like he wouldn't help me so he wouldn't have to spill the beans in front of Landon.

Anyway, I'm giving on the idea of Space Pirating for now. Which is just as well, probably since the Keldraxon's have taken over the station and they have a pretty strict policy against Pirates. Which reminds me, I should go visit Jenny in the infirmary. She was shot in the leg during the invasion, so they're going to fit her for a robotic one. I wonder if she likes parrots.

Sales Pitch; Part 1

If there was one thing that could be said for Louis Sutton-Murphy it would be that he was a good salesman. If there were two things that could be said for Louis Sutton-Murphy they would be that he was a good salesman and a terrible dancer.

Louis Sutton-Murphy's particular brand of sales took him to a variety of places most people try to avoid if they can help it. Today he was in the old commercial district of a small town somewhere north of Chicago and south of the North Pole. Louis drove around block after block of abandoned warehouses and factories until he found what he was looking for; at the end of a street with no signs to advertise its name, that was completely devoid of anything but natural light, which was mostly obscured by the abandoned factories that towered on either side of the street, there was small, one story, brick building with a sheet metal roof and a sign in front proclaiming "Future Home of Lakeview Dental Partnership".

Louis parked in front of the building and got out of his car. He buttoned the top button of his sky blue jacket, checking his reflection in the car to make sure his appearance was as immaculate as it was when he left the hotel that morning (it was). Louis always dressed in pastels. He found it lent him a jovial and friendly air. It made people think they could trust him (they could). Louis walked to his trunk and pulled out the metal briefcase he used to carry his samples. Louis was a good salesman, but armed with that briefcase, Louis was unstoppable. He had never lost a sale with that briefcase.

The interior of the Future Home of Lakeview Dental Partnership was sparse, to say the least. There was a single card table, with a single metal folding chair, with a singularly bored looking girl in her early twenties sitting in it. On the table was a phone and note pad. There was a door on one side of the room that, Louis hoped, for that girl's sake, led to a bathroom.

"Hello there. I'm Louis Sutton-Murphy with Industrial Dynamic Industries. I was hoping to talk to Dr. Meurtrier."

"Dr. Meurtrier isn't here," said the girl.

"Well, he's not in this room, obviously, but I don't think he's too far away. Just let him know I'm here. I'll wait."

The girl looked at Louis Sutton-Murphy like a five year old looks at spinach, a mixture of skepticism, disgust and curiosity. Louis smiled politely and remained standing resolutely in front of the girls card table. It was a tense few seconds; unflinching tenacity versus vague indifference. In the end Louis won out and the girl picked up the phone.

"There's a guy here.... I told him. He won't leave. I don't know remember his name."

No sooner had the word remember left the girl's mouth than a business card appeared in Louis hands with the smooth and stylish flair of a practiced magician, directly in the girl's eyeline. The girl, annoyed, took the card.

"Louis Sutton-Murphy, Industrial Dynamic Industries. It looks like he's alone. Alright. I'll tell him."

The girl hung up the phone and began doodling on the notepad. She started writing her name in curly cue letters. It was Ellen, apparently. After she finished writing her name once, she began again, this time in a more elaborate and girly style. She continued this for several variations. Until Louis coughed the cough of a person who's passive agressively trying to get the attention of someone who is doing something other than pay attention to them.

"Will Dr. Meurtrier be seeing me then?"

"I guess," said Ellen.

"Do you like your job Ellen?" Louis asked.

Ellen glared at him with a look that said, "Hey, man, I hate you. If you could do me the kindness of dying, I would be most appreciative. Furthermore, this conversation that we just had, might be the worst thing that is happened in the history of human events."

"Through the door," Ellen pointed to the door that Louis assumed led to a bathroom.

"Thanks sweet-heart. You have a terrific day." Louis walked to the door, opened it and stepped inside. Behind the door was a closet, more or less, although it lacked anything that would make it function as a closet. No rods or hangers or shelves. No light. He closed the door behind him. It was completely dark. This was not unusual. After a moment or two standing in the darkness, the floor beneath Louis began to move in a downwardly direction. This took Louis by surprise, but only for a moment. He was that good of a salesman.

The floor of the closet descended into another, massive, room. It was a far cry from the spartan brick building above. This was a room made of large metallic panels, some of which were incandescent. The room stretched out for what seemed like miles, and there were dozens, possibly hundreds of doors of all shapes and sizes that lined the walls as far as Louis could see. When the closet-floor elevator reached the end of its descent, Louis stepped off and walked to what appeared to be another reception desk, this one much nicer than the card-table affair upstairs. It was metal, and modern and could've very well been sentient. Sitting behind the desk was a woman of imposing beauty wearing the kind of dress that dared you to look anywhere but her eyes, but promised all kinds of delights if you managed to.

Louis was all too familiar with this kind of technique. She was designed to distract, to confuse, to fluster. She was designed keep people out. She wouldn't be successful.

"Hi, I'm Louis Sutton-Murphy, from Industrial Dynamic Industries. I'm here to see Dr. Meurtrier."

"Do you have an appointment?"

"You and I both know the answer to that question, and as much as I would like spending the next several minutes persuading you to take me to see the good Dr, you and I both know that's exactly what's going to happen. So let's take that part as read shall we, and why don't you slink out from behind that desk and take me to Dr. Meurtrier's office."

The secretary gave Louis a look that said, "You are direct and forthright, and unintimidated by my incredible beauty. I find this attractive. Unfortunately, you are asking me to do the one thing I'm explicitly not supposed to do in my position, which I find annoying. My feelings toward you are mixed, but they lean toward dislike. We will never be lovers."

"This way," said the secretary, standing up. She motioned to a door about 100 yards away. The secretary led Louis along the expansive corridor with an unnecessary amount of jiggling, considering she'd already lost that particular battle.

"So what's your name?"

"Andrea Nightshade."

"And how long have you worked here, Ms. Nightshade?"

"Three years in June."

Louis nodded. "It pay well?"

"Not bad. The benefits are good."

"I imagine so. Any hobbies?"
"I collect chess sets and play croquet on a semi-professional level."

"Good for you."
"Thank you."

They reached the door. Ms. Andrea Nightshade, semi-professional croquetier, pressed her hand against the blank security pad next to the door. The door opened and Louis walked inside.

The Time Traveler Introduction and A Regular Introduction

Welcome to my new format. No longer am I going to use this space to not write blogs. This is now a place where I will write and post short stories. One story a week. Every week, or else (the else in this situation is me not writing a story that week).  I was inspired to undertake this kind of project by my friend Andrew, who's 365 photo project last year, was a year-long source of enjoyment for me, as a viewer, and a year-long pain in the ass for him, since he had to take, edit and post a photo every day. I'm not nearly as ambitious as Andrew, nor am I photographer, so my project will be a lot less visual and updated with 1/7 of the frequency. I can't promise there stories will be good, but they will be short. And hopefully, by the end of the year, we'll have all learned something about writing short fiction and ourselves. So, without further ado, here's me talking about the story you haven't read yet:

Have you ever gotten a collection of short stories and the stories all have introductions by the author that reveal information about the story and the introduction is on the page before the story, so you haven't read the story yet, but you feel compelled to read the introduction first, because it is first, chronologically? That's what this is. I recommend reading the story before you read this.

Have you read it? Ok. This is the first time I've written non-master scene prose in a long, long time. It was not a smooth transition for me.

When I was in writing classes, specifically short fiction classes, I read a lot of bad short fiction. I also wrote a lot of bad short fiction. One thing that was discussed frequently in these classes was having a good hook; having a good lead that would get the readers attention and want to make them read more of the story. Some people wrote really good hooks and really terrible stories. I think their process was to come up with the most lurid, crazy thing they could think of, write that first, and then try to make a story around it. That's what I did with this story, and let me tell you, writing the hook first, then writing your story is not the way to go. I didn't know where this was going until about 3/4 of the way through it, at which point the story just became world-building and exposition, then I got tired of that, so I switched perspective and changed tone completely just so I could get this story somewhere close to an ending.

Anyway, I learned from Andrew's project to set the bar low early on so you're not having to come up with a masterpiece every week just to stay consistent. So there it is. Week 1. The Time Traveler.

The Time Traveler

                                                                            

Deven Devenport put two shells into the barrel of a shotgun and snapped it shut. "I swear to God, this is the last time I'm ever going to kill myself." He tucked the barrel under his chin and pulled the trigger.

Twenty minutes later and three hundred miles away, Deven Devenport woke up, coughing, in the walk-in freezer of an upscale Japanese restaurant in Tulsa, Oklahoma. He looked a little tired, but other than that, no worse for wear. He was naked of course, but that wasn't unexpected. He surveyed his surroundings and decided he would have to venture out of the freezer in order to find something to hide his shame. He walked to the door and pushed it open, slipping slightly on the freshly frozen patch of ice on the ground by the door.

Deven's peculiar situation has granted him a rather eclectic skill set that included, among other things, the ability to turn almost anything into a loincloth. He scanned the kitchen; dishtowel: too small, potato sack: too itchy, chef hat: interesting, apron: just right.

Deven was lucky that it was after hours, the kitchen was empty. He fashioned his apron loincloth and wandered around the kitchen looking for some clues as to where he had rematerialized. He pulled open a drawer on the preparation table and found a phonebook for the Greater Tulsa Metropolitan Area ("The Most Livable City in America").

"Oklahoma... who do I know in Oklahoma?" Deven asked. He didn't answer. He kept the phonebook and walked out of the kitchen into the bar.

Shogun Castle has a very strict policy against fraternizing with co-workers, and although both Julie and Paul were aware of this policy, they were more interested in putting body parts inside of each other then the rules of Tulsa's foremost, if only, upscale Japanese restaurant. They also didn't care much for Shogun Castle's no sex on the bar policy.

It was while Julie and Paul were demonstrating their disdain for those two rules, that Deven Devenport emerged from the kitchen. This was not the first time Deven had walked in on two people having sex after rematerializing. It wasn't even the first time it had happened in a restaurant and, it might not have even been the first time it had happened in this restaurant. In situations like these the best course of action was exit the room as quickly as possible hoping that the two (usually) people involved in the intercoursing would keep each other sufficiently distracted to make a stealthy escape. Unfortunately, that rarely ever happened. He was almost always discovered, and instead of being welcomed and embraced as a fellow semi-nude human being, just trying to make his way through the world, the reaction to his unexplained and sudden appearance was always a dramatic one.

"OH MY GOD!" Julie cried. Paul screamed. Julie pushed Paul off the bar.

"What the fuck?" asked Paul, in a way that implied he wasn't really looking for an answer.

Julie quickly slid off the bar herself and began scrounging for something to cover her naked torso, ultimately settling on a bar towel that didn't quite do the job.

"Amateur." Deven thought to himself.

Paul stood up and saw Deven hurrying toward the exit.

"What the fuck?" Paul asked again, this time it was understood that Paul did indeed want to know what the situation with the fuck was, and to further punctuate his query, Paul pulled out the compact shotgun that was kept under the bar for security reasons.

"Hold it right there cocksucker." Paul normally didn't use words like "cocksucker" in polite conversation, or any conversation really, but he thought it might make him seem more intimidating to the man with the apron wrapped around his mid-section, failing that, he thought it might make Julie think he was a tough guy, he had screamed in a pretty girly way when he saw Deven. He was wrong on both accounts.

Deven stopped moving. He had already been killed by a shotgun once, and although it didn't take the first time, but he wasn't particularly interested in giving it another go.

"Ok. I'm going to ask you a series of questions, and I want you to answer them," Paul commanded.

"Sure," Deven replied.

"Alright, question one: Who are you and why are you here?"

"That's two questions," Deven pointed out.

"Don't get cute, motherfucker, just answer the question," reprimanded Paul with a pointed jab of the gun in Deven's direction. Paul was quickly growing into his role of "man with the gun". He was beginning to wonder why he didn't point guns at people more often.

"My name is Deven Devenport and I'm here because this is where I rematerialized." Deven knew the latter half of that sentence would raise more questions than it answered. It always did. But Deven had given this little speech many times before, and this was the best place to start.

"What do you mean rematerialized?" Julie asked, finally joining the conversation.

"You know how when people die they normally just sort of stop moving and breathing and stuff?"

"Yes." said Julie.

"That doesn't happen to me. When I die, I just sort of disappear and reappear somewhere else, sometime later."
"Bullshit." said Paul.

"I know that's what it sounds like, but I assure you, I can't die, at least, when I do, I don't stay dead."

"Why?" asked Julie.

"Because I don't really exist," said Paul, as if saying that would clear anything up.

"What?" asked Julie.

"If I say it out loud it sounds ridiculous..." Deven looked at Paul and Julie, hoping they would take his word that it was ridiculous and move on. They didn't. "I'm from the future."

Deven waited to let what he just said sink in.

"Fuck you," said Julie.

"It's true. I will be born 800 years from now, or at least I would've been had my traveling back in time not permanently altered the course of humanity's future."

"What does that mean?" asked Paul.

"Haven't you ever seen a time travel movie? Anything you alter in the past effects the future, and pretty much anyone who goes back in time permanently fucks up the time they came from in ways so severe that it usually means that their present never happens. That's why rule number one of time travel is never go back before you were born. If you go back before you're born there's like a 95% chance that when you try to your present, you will have never been born," Deven explained.

"So why does that mean you can't die?" Paul asked.

"Good question. I don't really know, myself. I've met other people like me since I've been back here. No one seems to know. Nearest I can figure is we're like some sort of glitch in the space-time continuum. We're corrupted data and we can't be deleted no matter how hard anyone tries." Deven sat on a barstool.

Julie sat on the adjacent seat. "I'm not saying I believe you, but why would you come back so far if you knew you'd get stuck?" she asked.

"Well, I didn't mean to. I was only trying to go back 9 seconds. See, there's this girl I work with, her name is Fen, and we're like this close to dating," Deven held his thumb and index finger a quarter inch apart, "and I said something really stupid, so I was going back in time to say the right thing, but instead of going back 9 seconds, I went back 900 years, and I ended up naked in the middle of a soccer game."

"Why were you naked?" Asked Julie, who was clearly more interested in this mostly naked man than the one she was, until a few minutes ago, doing.

"Clothes can't travel through time, and since pretty much everyone from when I'm from is time traveling all the time, nobody wears clothes in the future."

"Wow." said Julie.

"Enough of this bullshit. Do you think we're stupid? You're not from the future. You're some pervert that likes hanging out in restaurants while you're naked. You're a sick fuck, and I'm done listening to you," Paul said, finally reentering the conversation.

"I told you it was silly, but it's absolutely true," Deven said.

"Prove it," said Paul.

Deven sighed deeply. "I'd rather not."

"Do it or I call the cops." said Paul.

Deven didn't like cops. Deven's state of technical non-existence made legal matters tricky, and worse still, lengthy. Deven tried to avoid contact with the justice system at all cost.

"Alright," Deven said, dejectedly. "What's your phone number?"

"112-3213," said Paul.

Deven slid off the barstool and walked over to Paul. He took the gun out of his hand. "I swear to God, this is the last time I'm ever going to kill myself." Deven put the gun under his chin and pulled the trigger.

"Holy fucking, fuck!" Julie screamed.

Deven's body lifted a few inches off the ground with the force of the shot, and crumpled down to the floor in an unnatural way, like a discarded ragdoll.

Julie screamed. It was loud.

The police were called anyway when a neighbor heard a gunshot from outside the restaurant. Since the gunshot wound was clearly self inflicted, Paul and Julie were only questioned briefly. They both gave statements to the police. Neither one mentioned time travel. They were both fired from Shogun Castle the next day when the Landon, the general manager found a pair of Julie's panties behind the bar. Paul and Julie grew apart, and with the illicit nature of their relationship removed by the losses of their jobs, the attraction faded. They broke up two weeks after the night they watched Deven Devenport shoot himself in the head with a shotgun.

Paul got a job as a bartender at a chain restaurant near the airport. Julie moved back in with her parents. She never quite recovered from that night.

Paul began drinking a lot more than was entirely healthy for him. He spent more time drunk than sober. He got fired from his bartending job. Desperate for money, he started working for his cousin Marcus, installing after-market car stereos and selling drugs. He wasn't very good at either and as bad as being a bad car stereo technician is, being a bad drug dealer is worse and much more dangerous. One night, while getting chased by a couple of undercover police officers, Paul had to dump his stash in the river. He didn't have the money to pay Marcus for the product he lost, and Marcus was tired of covering for Paul. Paul knew he was in some real deep shit. Paul considered killing himself, but he knew he didn't have it in him. He thought about running away, but with no money and no friends, he didn't really think that was a viable option. Aimless and hopeless Paul started wandering around Downtown Tulsa, contemplating what to do with the rest of his, probably short, existence. He found himself standing in front of Shogun Castle. It was after hours and the lights were all off except a Coors Light sign that hung above the bar. Paul looked at the bar through the window and thought of Julie. A tear started to form in his eye. Paul's phone began to ring. It was probably Marcus. Paul did not want to talk to Marcus, but he looked at the phone anyway. He didn't recognize the number. He took the call.

"Hello," said Paul.

"Hi. Is this... wait a second... he never told me his name. Shit. Ok, did you recently encounter a half naked man in a bar in Oklahoma?" said Deven Devenport.

"Yes," said Paul.

"Ok, well that was me. I'm still alive. I told you I would be," said Deven Devenport.

"Ok," said Paul.

"Ok," said Deven.

"Can I ask you something?" asked Paul.

"Sure, but I don't know any lottery numbers or anything like that," said Deven.

"No, it's not like that. Do you ever think about what would've happened if you would've just said that stupid thing to that girl and not gone back in time to try to change it?" asked Paul.

Deven waited several moments before answering.

"I came from a place where no one ever made mistakes. Well, people made mistakes all the time, but they would then just go back in time and fix the mistake before it happened. A world where everyone got everything right the first time sounds like a good idea on paper, but it was actually kind of a drag. I mean, except for the nudity, I think I'd rather live in a world where everything isn't perfect; where there are surprises and changes of plan. It's a lot more fun, I will say that." There was another moment of silence. "That being said, being an immortal time glitch isn't that great either. Really what it boils down to you can't beat yourself up for every little mistake you make. Live your life, what happens, happens."

"Ok," said Paul.

"Alright. Anything else?" said Deven.

"No. I guess not," said Paul.

"Well, have a good life," Deven said, then he ended the call.

Paul put his phone away and slunked down to sidewalk in front of Shogun Castle. Paul's phone began to ring. He pulled it out. It was Marcus. Paul held the phone and stared at the animated receiver shake on his phone's screen until it stopped ringing. The phone immediately started to ring again. It was still Marcus. Paul set the phone down on the sidewalk next to him, stood up, and started walking.