by Andrew Nadolny

At 2% light speed 200 years of a human life is needed to reach the nearest star, though it’s hardly that far if you don’t find the Slipstream Eel too unappealing; wormholes as such, much faster to jump through in lieu of the old ways. Your hyperdrive makes a sidewinding dive through some tunnel in space, placed for maximum commercial real estate.

“Skate or die,” is the cry and then “I hunger,” from Clyde beside me, before the rusty old Sinistar 9000 car charges into the wild blue. It looks like blue though its true hue is black, but puking from the back so goddamn hard, everything looks blue.

There’s a bar that sits just out of orbit of the lava world Jace which once housed the only taco place in space, now graced with a Pizza Hut pulled from Linden Ave and some fly thru Burger King—but that’s not really my thing. Not the drab remodel from the new century but a cozy retro revival, surviving the last time jump before the great Looper slump of ‘63.

But parking is also a bitch so we hitch our “Mystery Machine” to a keen parking garage scene and hop the shuttle on in tempting fate- damn thing’s always late.

You, me, the other three, and a cartoon gree-worm on the wall are all that’s there this close to close- the art deco shows there’s no accounting for taste. But we’ve no time to waste, a hasty Galaxy Pro Wrestling gig bigger than last time waiting for us. All fine with no line to the one working game, a lame refurbished cabinet, one new guy not having it, a salty snick and kick to the back.

“Klax is just whack.”

“Say, that again, Mac,” Blinky dares the Hasselhoff knock off kitted out in tinted shades, made some time in ’85.(Nineteen, that is.)

He only leaves alive cause offense number five gets us banned.

Cheap seats and sixty minutes waiting to eat just like the good old days. Souvenir cups, pizza in a pan, and a pitcher of Pepsi Trace (now no longer laced with five percent G.L.O.W.), then later an about face to the restroom.

My bladder is a great balloon about to burst and at first nothing seems amiss (except the sticky floor and smell of stale piss) and bliss is just a few steps except…

Except the tile goes on for miles, or rather it looks like just a few feet—one Johnny on the spot ten feet deep—until I start walking, stalking stones bent over doubled, troubled when it comes no closer, shuffling faster even after that extra breadstick starts making me sick I think I may very well die, the dried pools now clear when the damn thing draws no nearer.

“Mirror, mirror,” I mutter, determined not to clutter the cracking tile with my own urinary bile and think I might draw a deep breath and recollect my thoughts til one coughing fit later I swear I can taste it and time’s a-wastin’, chasing Shrödinger’s Loo- because the existence of said toilet hinges entirely on whether or not one can reach it.

And then I turn around and realize with a frown that every step is a futile effort, the door just as far if not more so going back.

Reality cracks.

At least until some other hapless shmuck equally out of luck starts pounding some resounding string of curses before kicking the thing in and with a manic grin sprinting past as if the last ten minutes (or ten years) were only in my head.

Logic and proportion have fallen sloppy dead…

Sneaking out on tip toes swearing that all the mondo shades in the world aren’t worth a second trip or a slip on the newly polished prismatic glass that we pass to get back to the restored Arcade Mall built before the last fall of man.

Or something like that.

“That was quick,” from Rick who’s sick of waiting. Good for him, but I know I won’t last so I just shove past, five rough jelly strides, checking for our ride.

The shuttle is late and it grates when he winks, then goes for a drink.

“The Last Crusade” is a lemonade parade, and the only place still taking loose change in this part of the galaxy.

The only place without AC too, but he swears he’ll be through before we know it as the rest of us gather near the one pier that’s still open and waste the last of our dough before you know, letting some charismatic carnie convince us we’re crack shots.

We’re not.

The docks are filled with all sorts of unsavory critters as delinquents in old game shirts litter the throughway back and some smug sucker, some Donkey Kong fucker finally says one word too many to Clyde…

A snicker snack then through the back, the attack discreet, the cops on the beat too far down to see the spilling spaghetti string of this thing that moments ago was some petty thug mugging old ladies for spare change and hard candies.

“Well that’s just dandy.” This from Inky about to puke as Clyde’s pincers wipe the smirk off that mouthy jerk. Then the fuzz come ‘round, some clown having called as the mauling continued, and Inky laments the costs coming down from our boss to bribe these jokers.

Ah, fame and its perks.

“Ya think it’s a work?” a whisper from some bystanders behind who’d have to be blind to think we’d sink so low as to do a show for free.

I shrug at the dumb mug seeing Clyde drug off by the antenna, about five minutes from exploding myself and think holding it like this can’t be good for the health as you, with your wealth of useless trivia offer up, handing me an empty cup with a faded neon Slimer and tell me to just go.

“Ain’t everything though?” I unzip with a curse.

I’ve pissed in far worse.

* * *

About the Creator

Andrew Nadolny is a trans man living in Ohio with his family and other assorted oddities. He one day looks forward to being devoured by his own mitochondrial DNA. His work has appeared in Aphelion, Crow & Cross Keys, and as part of the Classic Monsters Unleashed project.

About the Artist

Emmeline Amati is a human being from Planet Earth. An author and illustrator, they live in Madison, Wisconsin with a very bitey black cat and some additional humans.