So, like, I don’t know how to do this. What is this, high school? Ishmael says it’s good practice to keep some kind of diary, so you can you know keep track of when you are, but I think that’s some kind of bullshit. I never see him write anything down.
On the other hand, I can’t remember half the shit that happened since that dinosaur killed Hastings by, like, turning him a hundred years old, or something. Apparently I time travel when I eat tacos now. It used to have to be special tacos made out of time-traveled dino-fish meat. Now it’s just about any kind, except for those crappy chain restaurants. All they do is give me the shits, like always.
Ishmael tells me I need to clean up my language because I’m supposed to be representing to a whole other... shit, I can’t remember why he wants me to clean up my language. Probably because he’s an asshole.
Anyway, it feels like it’s been a couple months since Hastings got wasted. That was pretty harsh. And that one really hot timecop, Lovejoy, told us to get the fu-, excuse me, hell out of there before the dust had time to, you know, stop hanging in the air. So, that was too bad, because Ishmael was right. She totally does wonders for that Starfleet outfit the timecops wear.
Anyway, we haven’t seen her, or any other timecops since.
Which is pretty okay, because, cops, right? But, still. Hot timecops are another thing, right?
Ishmael’s been showing me the ropes of being a time traveler. He’s got this watch thing, that takes him places, or times, or whatever. He says he’s borrowing it from his great great grandpa, or something. He can dial it, and set it for specific points like historically awesome concerts (keep pushing for a trip to Altamont and keep getting denied). It also has a bunch of futuristic tri-corder things it does, like detects stuff that’s in the wrong time, and, you know, points out hidden dinosaurs and crap like that. And it has this thing that he says is like an eye-pod, but when I asked him “what the fawk’s an eye-pod?” he just laughed at me. Asshole.
For some reason having to do with some timecop bullshit, wherever or whenever Ishmael guess to with his watch, I go there too. By the same token, whenever I eat a taco, my man Ishmael is taking a little trip as well. So, we’re totally connected at the butt now, which is probably why Ishmael’s even bothered to let me know some of the finer points of time travel.
Like, the timecops will really come down hard on your ass if you take an Uzi to medieval Florence.
Whatever. I still say those Borgia dicks had it coming, even if it did take a week to clean up the mess to CTCAHQ’s satisfaction. Those fu—excuse me—effers.
Mostly Ishmael takes me to a bunch of places like you’d see in a history textbook, only the next town over and who gives a shit because nothing ever happened there. He says that’s the safest way to travel. So far I’ve seen drafty taverns in three different centuries. The beer was pretty damn good, though, so I’m not complaining. Apparently, in the past, it was all kick-ass micro-brews. Not sure I’ll even be able to swallow the old silver bullet by the time I get back to San Diego.
We go other places when I chow on a taco. Seems like fish tacos wind us up somewhere near the coast while chicken or beef take us further inland. The year seems to be totally up for grabs.
I thought Ishmael would shit a brick this one time when I had a machaca mini-chimi and suddenly we were surrounded by these Russian dudes in scary ass CCCP uniforms. I was thinking, oh shit, we’re going to have to go all Red Dawn and fight our way out of this one, but Ishmael really pulled through. He spoke some Russian to them and, before I knew it, we were doing shots with these guys. They were even going to let me try shooting an AK, when this one guy with a crazy pushbroom mustache showed up and started yelling and shit.
Pretty soon Ishmael and I were naked in a jail cell somewhere underground in Russia. I was pretty sure that was where I was totally going to die. I mean, Ishmael was really about to beat the crap out of me for dragging him into Stalin-land and getting him separated from his watch. He had murder in his eyes, and without his clothes one, I could tell the dude had the muscles to do it. And a pretty respectable package. It was a very confusing moment.
And then I let out this machaca chimi burp, and for some reason that did the trick. We were the fu- the hell out of there, and back in my crappy apartment. And somehow we had our clothes and Ishmael had his watch back. Which was cool, because, one, Ishmael didn’t want to kill me anymore, and, two, my roommates are total dicks. They would have given us all kinds of hell if we’d showed up there naked.
We had a couple other odd turns of the taco. Nothing too crazy. No talking dinosaurs, thank god. Who the hell knew dinosaurs could talk? There was some shit in France where all kinds of people were getting their heads cut off, but Ishmael knew this wine shop we could hang out in. The lady who ran the place knitted all the fricking time. It was crazy. All that knitting. Like, what the eff, right? The wine was all right. I’ve had better though. This was totally your ‘two buck chuck’ variety, which was kind of disappointing. You know, it was France, right. But I guess it was a bad year for France.
I think Ishmael is getting a little tired of these training missions, or whatever it is we’re doing. He keeps bitching about how he’d like to get back to his business. When I ask what that is, he says ‘import/export.’ That’s bullshit. I’m pretty sure he’s just a hobo. He certainly knows how to get people to buy him drinks, so that’s awesome. We’ll see if he actually has a business besides knowing which parties to crash.
He says I’m almost ready for something called chronocaching. He won’t tell me what that is, though. He says I have to see it in action, and that’s what we’re doing tomorrow. Cool. Whatever. I guess I’m a time traveler now.