by Rob Dircks
Anyway, after lots of trial and error, me and Tesla come up with a message for Pete, and keep our fingers crossed that this Bobo-One-as-a-Conduit-to-Bobo-Two thing works.
Pete’s going to be so proud!
From: Margaret Thatcher
To: Julie Taylor
Date: June 16, 2015 3:27pm
Subject: Re: Chip
Julie,
Pete here. Your boyfriend is a fucking idiot.
He’s got nothing better to do than use Bobo to send me nonsense messages, mostly using words that rhyme with “fuck.”
- Pete
From: Margaret Thatcher
To: Julie Taylor
Date: June 16, 2015 3:27pm
Subject: Re: Chip
Julie,
Pete here. Disregard that last email. Meg figured out that the Bobo messages needed decoding. My bad.
And because I know you have the same sense of humor as Chip, I figured you would enjoy the last message he sent through Bobo:
“YOMOFO WEBE LIVEDIVE STOPDROP WEBE GUNFUN YOOZTOOZ BOLO BOWZLOWZ AZPAZ CONRON DURU ITSHIT FORBOR SCAPEGRAPE STOPDROP STANDBAND BYDY STRUKSFUCKS STOPDROP CONRON FERMPERM WITHPITH NEWBREW MESSTRESS AGEPAGE STOPDROP PEEWEE ESSPRESS TELLPRELL JOOLDROOL STOPDROP SHILLQUILL LUVDUV THISMISS OUTSPOUT.”
Literal translation:
“YO MO FO WE LIVE (STOP) WE GUN YOOZ BO BOWZ AS CON DU IT FOR SCAPE (STOP) STAND BY STRUKS (STOP) CON FERM WITH NEW MESS AGE (STOP) PEE ESS TELL JOOL (STOP) SHILL LUV THIS (OUT)”
Actual Translation:
Yo motherfucker – we’re alive! We’re going to use the two Bobos as conduits for our escape. Stand by for instructions. Confirm with a new message.
P.S. Tell Julie. She’ll love this.
Later,
- Pete
P.S. Listen, I do need to tell you this: I know I call Chip an idiot, but he’s changed. I’ve seen things from him – courage, smarts, sacrifice – that I just didn’t think he had in him. You might want to think about giving him a second chance. Just saying.
P.P.S. Don’t get me wrong. He’s still an idiot 90% of the time.
22
The
Great(ish)
Escape
Dear Julie,
Okay, so we go back and forth with Pete (it was hilarious the first couple of times, but I’m pretty done with the talking-through-Bobo thing), and establish that we can communicate, and help each other with the next critical step Tesla has planned.
And since Tesla thinks too fast for me to write all his craziness down, I’m making him tell you himself.
Dear Ms. Taylor,
First, let me introduce myself: I am Nikola Tesla, the inventor of the INTERDIMENSIONAL TRANSFER APPARATUS. If you ever receive Chip’s correspondence, please note that this term should be spelled in ALL CAPITAL LETTERS at all times. He may also refer to it as the “ITA,” which I find acceptable.
Second, I must say that it is a pleasure to “meet” you, as it were. Your beau Chip has told me much about you, and we’ve agreed that you are, in fact, the cat’s pajamas – a slang term from my day. As a side note, Chip has taught me slang from his era as well, although most of it I would never repeat to a fair lady such as yourself, for fear of being smacked directly in the face.
Third, I have heard that Chip may not have treated you as well as deserved recently. But I would vouch that the Chip I have come to know is honest, courageous, clever, and contrite: I hope you can grant him forgiveness. (Although it is true that he can be almost too much to bear when he endlessly prattles on about this or that! And he feels he must include several swear words in every single sentence! Tsk!)
Finally, at Chip’s request, I will outline our escape plan:
Step 1: Expose the electrical circuitry of the ITA
As Chip may have described to you in previous correspondence, I designed the INTERDIMENSIONAL TRANSFER APPARATUS with electrical outlets, to power the INTERDIMENSIONAL NAVIGATION CONTROLLER, under every third doorway, eighteen feet apart. By fashioning a screwdriver from my index fingernail (I have been growing it for quite some time for such a purpose), we will unscrew the plate, remove the outlet, and expose the bare wiring. Pete will do the same on their side, albeit without a fingernail, but a screwdriver from among Meg’s tools. On another side note, I am quite excited to meet Meg. She seems to have a “kick-ass” intellect, as Chip would say. (Sorry. I simply had to indulge in one of Chip’s colorful phrases!)
Step 2: Send a massive electrical charge through Bobo
At precisely the same moment, Pete and I will plunge the exposed, live wires into Bobo’s flesh. (Poor Bobo. Chip has assured me that they have previously electrocuted Bobo, and that he has survived, or even thrived on, the experience. I hope he is right. I have never killed a living thing before.)
Of course, I have tried using electricity many times to break the continuity of the prison’s containment field. But short circuits and such, acting strictly within the prison, have failed. Now, at least theoretically, two simultaneous electrocutions, from inside and outside the prison – the first passing from Bobo One towards Bobo Two, the second passing from Bobo Two towards Bobo One – should collide in the middle and generate a massive power surge and overload. This in turn should create a breach in the prison’s containment field, allowing us to…
Step 3: Pass through to safety
Once together on the other side, and with the aide of the second INTERDIMENSIONAL NAVIGATION CONTROLLER, we will navigate to a dimension that can help us in our quest to stop WHO. However, one step at a time.
I will now hand the floor, as it were, back to Chip.
Yours Very Truly,
Nikola Tesla
January 7, 1943
Dear Julie,
So we’re ready. WHO is off collapsing another universe (which, I think I’ve mentioned, hurts like a motherfucker, btw), so we’re pretty confident he’ll be gone for a while.
We get everything ready: expose the wires, coordinate with Pete, get Bobo into position. We’re all sitting on the floor of the hallway, ready to jump into this breach thing Tesla’s talking about.
“Pardon me, Chip.”
“Yeah?”
“Are you certain about doing this to Bobo?”
“Of course. Here, look, he’ll tell you himself. Hey Bobo, tell Nikola what you think of us electrocuting you with these wires.”
Bobo gives Nikola the finger.
“BEEZNEEZ.”
“See? We’re all set.”
“All right. But there is one other small thing.”
“Uh-oh.”
“There is a slight possibility that this dual electrocution will cause a chain reaction effect, much like what happens on an atomic scale in a nuclear fission reaction.”
“Okay, english?”
“We could do worse than WHO, with a cascading collapse of universes that doesn’t end. Which would hasten that which we are trying to prevent in the first place. The end of everything.”
Ugh. Again with the end-of-everything talk. God I hate that shit. So of course you pop into my head. And I think back to the last time I saw you. And before you start deleting this email – if I promise this is the only time I rehash what happened in April, just to get it out there on the table in case this is my last chance, is that okay? I promise. Bear with me.
It was a rainy night, like a boring middle-of-the-week Tuesday. You came over after work, in this shitstorm mood about how Lisa at work was a total bitch to you. No smile, no hug, just a big cloud of negative. And you ranted on for like a half an hour. And this wasn’t the first time.
So I just freaked out. Like, I had enough of my own bullshit to deal with – how could I possibly have enough of whatever it takes to help you deal with yours, too? Wasn’t love just about having fun? And forgetting all the bullshit of normal life when you’re together?
So I ran away. In my own demented way, I thought one person’s bullshit was better than two people’s bullshit.
I was wrong.
Here’s what I found out the second I stepped into the ITA: that when you find yourself in that moment where life is nothing but bullshit, when you don’t know which way is out, when you’re trapped and scared and alone, you would give anything to be with that person, no matter how much extra baggage they came with. And that’s when I had the flash of truth:
Love is not just the fun and the good times –
it’s the bearing of each other’s bullshit,
the wanting to bear that great weight together,
the lifting each other up. That’s love.
I know I sound like a broken record at this point. I know if Pete was reading this he’d be rolling his eyes and pretending to gag himself. But I don’t care. I need you to know again. One more time. To know that this is keeping me going. I have walked this hallway for a year, for a decade, forever, for one reason: to come home, and pick up your backpack full of bullshit, and help you carry it, while you reach over and help me carry mine. And I can’t wait for the moment we realize that with both of us carrying, it’s not so heavy after all.
“Chip? Did you hear me? Chip?”
“Huh? Oh, yeah, Nikola, end of everything. Cool. How slight of a possibility?”
“One in a hundred, perhaps.”
I grab the wires from Tesla.
“Fuck the one percent. Let’s go home.”
And I jam them into Bobo’s chest.
Holy shit.
I hope this isn’t the end of everything.
But it sure looks like it.
Dear Julie,
KA-BLAAAAMMMMM!!!
No.
SKACHOWWWWWWW!!!
No.
SCRUMPHPAAHHSHGHGH!!!
No. Whatever. It’s no use. There’s no word for what we’re feeling/seeing/hearing. Except it’s REALLY bright, and REALLY loud, and REALLY FUCKING SCARY.
I jump into Nikola’s arms, screaming.
“Nikola! It’s the end!”
Over the deafening sound, I can barely hear him yelling back. “No, Chip! It’s not the end! It’s the beginning! Look!”
He points through an opening, at the center of the brightest light I’ve ever seen, and I can barely make it out, it looks a million miles away, but it’s there…
Pete!
I let go of Tesla, and push him towards the breach. He picks up Bobo (who’s hopefully only momentarily dead) and dives in. I’m right behind him. I dive.
But I stop. What the fuck?
I look back.
WHO’s holding my damn foot.
Dear Julie,
You know how the bad guys are always really ugly, like hardly human at all, with cancerous growths all over them, long brown fingernails, face tattoos, missing teeth and shit? Not this WHO guy. I REAALLLYY hate to say this, but…
WHO is cuddly.
I swear to God, that’s the first word that pops into my head when I get a good look at him. Cuddly.
So he’s holding onto my foot as I try to escape, and I’m kicking his head with my other foot, while Pete and Meg are trying to pull me out of the breach by my hands. Then one of my kicks knocks off WHO’s hood, and I’m like:
“Holy shit. Santa?”
Seriously. Santa Claus. Or Gandalf the White. Or Hagrid from Harry Potter. Dumbledore. Or some other old, kind, benevolent guy with a long, white, flowing beard who watches out for you. Even his eyes are warm and friendly. He smiles. I get the urge to sit on his lap and tell him what I want for Christmas. And it’s crazy fucking loud, but I can here him whisper…
“Chip. Come back. You forgot your mobile phone.”
I’m slipping. Pete and Meg and now Tesla are trying like hell to pull me to safety, but I’ll admit it – I’m thinking maybe this guy WHO isn’t so bad after all. Look at him, for crying out loud! And he wants me to have my cell phone back. That’s kind of sweet. So I let go of one hand and reach back for it. Pete and Meg are screaming, but I can’t hardly hear them over the roar of the breach. I can only hear WHO’s whisper. He extends my phone a little closer.
“That’s it, Chip. Just a little more. You’re almost home.”
Wait.
Home.
Where is home? Is home with this cuddly old man who might bring me presents if I’m a good kid? I’ll probably get hot chocolate too. Whenever I want. I wonder if he has elves.
And then I remember.
Fuck no.
Santa’s not real (sorry for the spoiler, kids).
Home is with you.
I reach back toward WHO even further, smiling at him, stretching my hand out, and he meets me halfway with the phone in his hand. I snatch it from his fingers and look right in his eyes. “Thanks for the phone, bitch.” Then I kick him in the temple with my free foot. “And that’s for laughing at my emails, you dick. Pete! Let’s go!”
I swing my hand back to Pete and with one last giant heave, they all get me through the breach. Whew!
Wait. Except my foot. WHO’s still got a pit-bull hold on my foot, no matter how much we kick and pull.
WHO smiles, and whispers again. “All right then, Chip. It looks like I’ll just have to join you and Tesla and your friends. It’ll be fun.” And he begins crawling up my leg, through to our side of the breach.
“GET HIM THE FUCK OFF! CLOSE THE BREACH NIKOLA!! CLOSE THE BREACH!!”
What I didn’t know at the time, though, was that Tesla had no idea how to close the breach once it was open. It was an uncontrolled phenomenon that might last for one second, or one year, or forever. And as he’s trying to explain this, yelling over the sound, and we’re all pulling and kicking like mad, and I’m prying WHO off me, and even Bobo is biting WHO’s fingers, and it looks like all is lost…
SCHLUNK.
The breach closes. Silence.
Whew again! Finally. We’re free!
I look up at Pete and Meg and Tesla standing over me, and I smile. But they’re not smiling back. They’re looking past me.
“What?”
I look down. What a mess. There’s blood everywhere.
Oh God. I’m going to throw up.
23
Hey!
I liked
that foot!
From: Chip Collins
To: Julie Taylor
Date: June 4, 2015 5:43am
Hey! I liked that foot!
Hi Julie,
Good news/bad news.
Good news is I got my cell phone back, so I can email you instead of scratching notes on bits of paper and sending them to you inside bottles like Robinson Crusoe.
The bad news? My fucking foot is gone. My right foot. My second favorite foot. Gone. How the fuck am I going to drive?
And yeah, I’m crying. But this time Pete doesn’t think I’m a baby. He saw the breach close right on my ankle and WHO’s hand. The blood everywhere. Pieces of fingers, and blood, and my fucking stump of a leg. Gross. Pete takes my hand. “Dude, hold on. We’ve got you.”
In appreciation, I throw up on him.
By the time I pass out, and then come to and throw up on Pete again, and start crying again, the whole team is already down to business.
“I’ll tie a turniquet from the rope.”
“Nikola, keep pressure on it.”
“Is there a rag somewhere? I have Chip puke all over me.”
Meanwhile, the Bobos are just standing there. They’re back from being electrocuted, good as new I guess, but just staring at this whole scene, the blood and the frantic activity, and of course me puking. Suddenly they walk right into the middle of us.
“STOPDROP.”
Pete’s not amused. “Bobos, get the fuck out of the way!”
“STOPDROP.”
“Not the time! Back off!”
And then Meg does the lightbulb thing (she’s always doing it. You can tell when she gets an idea, because she raises one of her eyebrows and taps her chin and kind of smiles. It’s sort of cute – except when you’re covered in your own blood and vomit). “Wait, Pete. One second.”<
br />
And one second is all the Bobos need. They immediately kneel down by my ankle. I manage a whisper. “Hey, maybe they have some kind of healing power. They’re messiahs, you know.”