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Chapter 32: Living With Parkinson's?

Chapter 5: ...And Into the Cow Pie
2.17.2002 Edited by Ben, every Sunday.

Bjorn lurched backwards, then forwards, then left, then right. The pill was making him feel as sick as a Texan in a vegetarian hippie commune. His stomach felt like there were a thousand pygmy armadillos having a humping contest inside of him. The deeply historical British red coat was taken aback by the whirligig that Bjorn had become. Bjorn paused, and looked at the statue of Abraham Lincon, sitting there with its steely gaze, as if searching for inspiration. He then turned, and faced the redcoat.

“God damn you, you limey bastard! You’re working for HIM aren’t you!” yelled Bjorn, cursing the redcoat for the sudden anguish he felt himself in.

“I’m afraid I can’t tell you that, my boy. You already know far, far too much already” with those ominous, thickly accented words, the redcoat pulled from his belt an authentic 18th century flintlock pistol and levelled it at Bjorn, “Pip-pip and all that. Say ‘cheerio’ to the afterlife for me.”

Bjorn stared down the barrel of the antique handgun. Suddenly, sparks and glowing balls of lightning swirled and churned around him. The redcoat hesitated.

“Sssssssssssssssssssssssssss… POP!” Bjorn vanished entirely from the year 1918, never to return.

Behind the redcoat, huffing and puffing, came the large Scotsman that was accompanying him in the previous chapter.

“Ach, ye wee pansy, dinna tell me ye let th’ little Yankee get away” he jibed.

“Listen, you haggis-eating skinflint, I did not see your caber-tossing self anywhere near the American when he got away. Perhaps THE BOSS would like to know about all the scotch you keep stashed away in that kilt of yours?”

“Oi lad, dinna let’s get oot of hand hear… dinna let’s argue… Let’s jest get our story streight befarre we go back to see th’ boss…”

The duo with the vague sense of homoerotic tension between them continued bickering in post-World War 1 Washington DC. Across the continent and forty years later, in the night sky above a small town known then for little more than its dairy farms, a light appeared in the sky.


The glowing ball of luminosity impacted in the dark corner of a farmer’s field, sending cows running every which direction.

“Ooooooooooog…” croaked Bjorn, laying in the pit of the crater. He spat out a clump of dirt from his mouth “Good thing all that Ball Lightning broke my fall… who knew that such a misunderstood phenomenon could have so many practical uses?”

Bjorn surveyed his surroundings. He was impacted at least 5 feet into the ground, inside a crater about 5 feet to either side of him and 20 feet in front of him. A cow peered over the lip of the crater. It stared into Bjorn’s eyes. Bjorn stared back.

“Dagnabbit Bessie, git away from that crater!” A voice cried out from beyond Bjorn’s field of view “Git now, c’mon”

Bjorn felt his hackles raise. That accent… that bizarre accent… surely his richly historical pursuers couldn’t have found him in this new time period already? Bjorn picked up a rock from the ground near where he was laying. As soon as either the Brit or the Scot looked into the crater…

“What in tarnation is going on here… OW!”
Bjorn realized his terrible mistake only after he’d let go of the rock. The kindly old southern farmer had only got a glimpse of Bjorn before being nailed in the forehead with a boulder.

“OH! Oh my…” Bjorn rushed up to the farmer, knocked down for the count in the dirt. Bjorn immediately recalled his boy scout First Aid training, and checked for vital signs. The farmer was breathing, but unconscious. About forty feet away was the farmer’s truck. Bjorn slumped the farmer into passenger side of the cab, got in the driver’s seat, and followed the truck’s tracks back to the farmhouse they came from.

“How do I explain this?” Bjorn thought to himself. He decided that sticking around wouldn’t be the best option, so he dropped the farmer off on his front porch, parked the truck on the driveway, stole a set of clothes and enough money to get him into town… whatever town that might be.

Bjorn left the farm and started walking down the dark, deserted highway. He could see rusty coloured plateaus and mountains in one direction, so he figured the town was probably the other way.

“Welcome to Roswell, New Mexico” The sign announced on the outskirts of town, “Home of the world’s largest ball of bailing twine.”

“What a painfully boring town.” thought Bjorn, “At least here I’ll probably be able to find some things out about what’s going on with me, without having to worry about some crazy historical re-enactor trying to kill me.”

Bjorn saw a bright red neon sign ahead, declaring “MOTEL” to the world.

Bjorn entered the office, and rung the bell for service. A man approached him, who looked like an overweight and greasier version of “Riffraff” from the Rocky Horror Picture Show.

“How may I help you, sir?” The motel manager asked in a slow, menacing voice, “and please, don’t keep me waiting. Andy Griffith is about to catch the thief who keeps stealing his coffee.”

“I’d like a room for the night, a bottle of aspirin, a news paper… and if it’s not too much to ask, “Bjorn hesitated, “could you tell what year it is?”

“An unusual question,” the manager replied, rubbing his hands one over the other, “but I will humour you. The year is nineteen fifty-nine. But around here, nothing ever really changes. It might as well be the year two thousand, Roswell would still be the same place.”

Bjorn couldn’t help getting the sense that there was a massive amount of dramatic irony in the air that he wasn’t privy to.

“Now, would you like a room with a view?” The manager licked his lips with those words.

“Ummm… no.” Bjorn wasn’t sure why he refused, but he felt it was the best course of action.

“Very well, now take your keys and leave me alone. Pay when you check out… or else…”

The manager trailed off as he hobbled back to the room with a black and white television in it where he came from. Bjorn took his keys and headed to his room. He fell asleep, blissfully unaware of the totally unexpected events that would happen tomorrow…

By Patrick Snider

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