A pretty average Sunday. An enjoyable episode of Fringe, a disappointing crossword puzzle, and a fun bit of writing:
“Step away from the teleporter,” says Dupree — or maybe it’s his clone. Has that even happened yet? I glance at my watch, but of course it’s stopped — not just stopped; a large crack splits the face of it, the numbers beneath not just frozen but obscured by broken glass and chipped paint — and there’s no reason to think it would even be accurate if the hands were still moving. I can’t tell you the amount of trouble I’ve caused for myself lately by putting my trust in clocks. I look back at Dupree for some kind of telltale sign — his clone has…had…will have a thicker beard, doesn’t he? Or maybe a prosthetic leg? — but between the thick haze that settles in my brain every time we go through this dumb routine, and way he’s shouting and waving that gun at me, it’s hard to concentrate on much of anything but the most immediate concerns.
It’s only an hour later, when I’m tied to the chair in his cabin, that I realize, hell, what does it matter if he’s a clone or not? Dupree’s always hated my guts whichever version of him I’ve run into. I should just be glad this time he managed not to shoot me.
I should maybe back up. You find yourself saying that a lot when you’re a time traveler, especially when it’s of the accidental variety and you’re slingshotted back and forth without any real sense of control. You find yourself saying things like, “I should maybe back up,” and “Haven’t we had this conversation before?” and “Jesus, Dupree, for god’s sake this time around don’t shoot me in the goddamn head.” And yet you still find yourself repeating things, explaining yourself, and instructing Dupree’s clone on how best to pull shrapnel from your brain.
This is clearly an earlier Dupree. I should have known by the way he smells. Before I got here, he was living alone, in this badly heated shack in the woods, his own private Siberia, and he almost never bathed. It’s tempting to call him a mad scientist and just be done with it, but that implies some kind of basic understanding of the science he was toying with. Mad tinkerer is probably more accurate. He barely understood the principles he was building upon, much less the practical applications of his inventions. Take the “teleporter,” for instance. Before I got here, it just sat in a heap of other junk out back. It wasn’t until I stepped inside it — which, from the odors still wafting from the Dupree sitting across from me, I’d say is still months away — that he learned it was really a time machine.
A piece of crap time machine, if you ask me, but a time machine nonetheless.
I’m doing a little better cold-wise, but I still haven’t quite got it beat yet.