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Note: Contains lots of swear words, as in mostly constructed of same. Feel free to continue on or flee to safety.

 

Mr. Bigglesnort squeezed his expansive bulk into the back of the limousine. He slipped a fiver into the hand of the Ritz Carlton concierge before he closed the door.

“All right, James, let’s get going. The SS Blue Riband leaves for London from Pier 23. Try not to be late this time,” said the financier with an Oxford-educated accent. He distracted himself looking for something to eat in the well-stocked larder.

The small window between the opulent passenger section and the utilitarian driver’s seat snapped open. A black woman with a chauffer’s cap perched on her dreadlocks peered back. “Sit yo fat white ass down, bitch. We got a bumpy ride ahead.”

The limo lurched forward, tires squealing, throwing Mr. Bigglesnort sideways in the back seat. He flailed around like a turtle as the vehicle hurtled around corners and raced through red traffic lights.

“I say, please don’t hurt me!” he whimpered. “I’m only visiting, I’ll leave the country straight away!”

The limo driver adjusted the rear view mirror so she could see the man shaking like jelly. “Yeah, I know who yo ass is. Sir Percival Bigglesnort. Mister got more fucking cash than Jesus.”

“If it’s a ransom, I’m sure we can reach some kind of arrangement to your satisfaction,” he said, finally righting himself.

She reached for something and produced a nickel-plated revolver, holding it up so he could see it through the sliding window. “Shut the fuck up or I’m gonna put some fucking holes in your lard ass. Fucking lead-based liposuction if you don’t do what I say, bitch.”

Mr. Bigglesnort braced himself as best he could and stared at his captor until they were out of New York City. She drove until dusk, then pulled off of the highway and turned into a metal machinery shed set back among a grove of maples.

She exited the limo and opened the door. “Get the goddamn fuck outta there before I get pissed. I can’t call triple-A to get a tow truck out here to unload you.”

It took several tries but the financier huffed and puffed his way out of the vehicle.

She pointed the gun at his head and pulled the hammer back. “Do I got yo attention now, motherfucker?”

“Yes, m’am,” he said, a dark stain forming on his pants and running downward.

“I ain’t no m’am. My name is Latisha Jones. Say it, bitch!

“Your name is La…Latisha Jones.”

“If you don’t do exactly what I’m about to tell you, I’m gonna pull this trigger and spray lard brains all over this place. You got that?”

He nodded, knees shaking so hard he had to keep catching himself by grabbing the limo door. “Yes, m’am. I mean yes, Latisha Jones.”

“You learnin’. Now, pay close attention. Your life depends on this next part.” She moved closer, placing the barrel of the revolver against his forehead. “In ten years, you gonna have a son. His name is Reginald, which is a fucked up name in both this time and the nineteen eighties. You gonna tell him to send one of them goddamn fucking time machines he makes to this exact time and space. Lookit your watch, bitch.”

He slowly pulled his pocket watch chain until it slid into his sweaty palm.

“What time is it? Hurry, ain’t got all fucking day.”

He glanced down. “It’s six fifty-five.”

“Tell yo son if he ain’t got a time machine here by seven, I’m gonna give him a retroactive abortion by killing his fat fuck of a father before his fat fucking sperm swims up his pathetic excuse of a mother. Remember that. Seven o’clock means I punch yo clock, bitch.”

An earsplitting crack made them both wonder if she had accidentally pulled the trigger, but a blinking metal box had appeared in front of the limo. Mr. Bigglesnort fell over in a dead faint.

“You fuckin’ lucky you got a good memory, bitch.” She pulled off her chauffer’s cap and threw it at his face.

The door of the metal box opened and a voice said, “Time machine #5 is pre-programmed to return you to 1988, leaving in five…four…”

Latisha dove in just as the door slammed shut. The whole machine vibrated for a few minutes, just like it did when she had volunteered to test it out.

The door opened and she marched out, ready to give her asshole boyfriend a piece of her mind.. Instead of a loft apartment on Park Avenue, she was surrounded by brackish water and a ring of magma-spewing volcanoes stretching off into the distance. Every few minutes large meteors streaked across the sky, bursting into pieces and plunging into the water.

 

The door of the time machine closed and, as it faded from view, a familiar older and shaky voice said, “I say, who’s the bitch now?