Chapter 6: Bacon AND Sausages, Please
3.4.2002 Edited by , every Sunday.
Bjorn gazed hazily out his hotel window onto a stunning view of a brick wall. Thoughts were speeding through his mind like a runaway bumper car: What was he to do, where was he to go, how was he to pay for this cockroach infested hotel room? Not the sort of dilemmas Bjorn was used to. Back in the 21st century, it seemed that Bjorn’s biggest dilemmas involved choosing between bacon and sausages for breakfast. Usually he compromised and had a bit of both.
“I’ll never take those decisions for granted again, that’s for sure”, he thought to himself, “that is, if I survive to make those decisions again.”
The thought made his heart sink to the pit of his stomach. Exhausted from his near death experience, subsequent time travel, and long walk to the city, all Bjorn wanted was a good night’s rest. He was in no mood to ponder his current situation.
Bjorn knew that somehow whoever was after him had concocted a method of tracking him through time and space, unless the crazy duo in Washington just happened to run into him in 1918, which he highly doubted. On his last trip through time it took “them” months to find him. He somehow doubted that he would have such luck this time around. He figured he had at least the night, if not longer, before his assailants found where, or when, he was.
Bjorn was a firm believer that after a good night’s rest and a hearty breakfast, one could conquer any mountain. He would sort his thoughts in the morning. As Bjorn lay his head on his feather pillow, he barely noticed the itchy feathers poking out of their case or the irritating wool blanket that wrapped around his tired body.
Bjorn’s dreams were sweet and uninterrupted. Dreams of childhood and romping around vast fields under iridescent blue skies. He felt completely relaxed when he awoke at precisely 7:00am. Confident that he would not be tracked for a good few more days, he stretched his limbs and cracked his joints in alphabetical order, as was his morning tradition. Famished, he went down to the lobby and asked the clerk where the nearest diner was. The clerk was predictably rude but, to Bjorn’s relief, didn’t ask about payment.
After a quick walk, Bjorn found himself at a classic 1950's diner.
“Just like ‘Nickels’”, thought Bjorn. “Gotta love Celine Dion.”
As Bjorn was deciding what to eat for breakfast he felt a surge of confidence when he realized that he was once again debating between bacon and sausage.
“I’ll have some of each!” he thought triumphantly to himself, knowing that he was not taking the decision for granted!
After the meal, Bjorn threw some pocket change onto the table and decided to take advantage of his free time and explore 1959 Roswell.
“Maybe I’ll find some aliens” he chuckled to himself. Bjorn believed that life from other planets was just a bunch of science fiction hooh-hah for Trekkies to have wet dreams about. Suddenly Bjorn got the sensation that someone was watching him.
“They couldn’t have found me this quickly”, Bjorn thought, but he was quickly starting to doubt himself.
With his eyes darting in all directions, Bjorn scanned for the quickest escape from the view of his voyeur. As Bjorn turned a sharp corner, there it was, right in front of him! A green alien! With a gun! Pointing straight at him! It was hideous! It was a life-size, kinetic version the inflatable alien Bjorn had once won at a carnival. It had a big green head and two large, black eyes with hollow, empty pupils within them.
Taking no time to hesitate, Bjorn ran hard and fast away from the unsightly creature! Though Bjorn worked out regularly, he was sweating profusely. The thought of a real-live alien scared the heebie-jeebies right out of him. What would the alien do to him if it got a hold of him? Were there more aliens waiting for him around the next bend? Bjorn glanced over his shoulder and saw that he had gained some distance on the alien who was struggling to catch up with Bjorn. He took a slight comfort in the fact that the alien would find it difficult to aim its gun while running.
“Hold on”, thought Bjorn, mid-stride, “why would an alien have a gun? Wouldn’t an alien have some sort of laser-beam-space-evaporator? No self-respecting alien would ever carry a human weapon! And was that a zipper down its front?” Bjorn was quickly doubting the authenticity of this so-called alien. He turned down a narrow side street as to give the “alien” the impression that he would continue running. Bjorn waited at the edge of the first building on the street and got ready to perform the classic “clothesline” move. He could hear the “aliens” pants a mile away so he knew precisely when it was about to round the corner. Bjorn stuck out his arm and WHAM the “alien” was knocked out cold.
Bjorn carefully inspected the “aliens” body and quickly came to the conclusion that it was a human in a cheaply made alien costume. Feeling slightly sheepish at how easily he was tricked into believing this was a real alien, Bjorn quickly got to work at examining the costumed figure. He removed the alien’s mask to discover the head of an eighties-style punk rocker with spiky, fire engine red hair, and a chain linking his nose ring to his earring. Bjorn looked inside the mask and found the inscription of ‘Out of this World Costumes, Inc.’
Bjorn involuntarily let out a shudder, both at the irritatingly cheesy brand name and at the fact that his assailants must now have a reliable method of tracking where and when he was. He had to get out of there, and fast. As he was about to leave, he had the idea to take the punk’s gun. Bjorn hated guns. He believed that guns would be the destroyers of civilization. But, alas, he needed a method of protecting himself. It was time to take drastic measures. He picked up the gun and reluctantly slipped it into his pocket, but not before putting on the safety. Bjorn had seen more than enough Police Academy movies to know the consequences of not putting the safety on before holstering a loaded weapon. Bjorn also rummaged through the punk’s pockets and, to his luck, found some ancient looking car keys.
Bjorn found the 56' Chevy parked not far from the spot where he was first confronted by the alien. It was a sparkling sky blue, with 6 inch fins a full tank of gas, a real beaut’. Feeling relatively good about the previous events, he knew he had a good few hours before the punk regained consciousness and anyone knew he had escaped. Bjorn revved up the engine and decided to head west. Where he was going? He’d know when he got there. He sped down the road with his spirits high, a smile on his face and a tune in his heart.
By Stephanie Avery