The Big Payday
Marcus and the Wompler
The spiraling, white light was blinding. It was also textured, which made Marcus nauseous. He could feel centuries flow through his body, like a thread through a needle. The feeling of warping, then walking through time and space to a specific time and place was always… well, weird. But it was a living.
As the whirling light spit him out, and zipped back out of the corner of the room, the slender man hit the floor with a thud.
The ground was slowing to a mild spin when Angie spoke, “How did we do?”
“We did fine,” Marcus said, shaking the fuzz from his head.
“Great. What did we get?”
“I might need a minute, Angie.”
“Right.”
Marcus got up from all fours and checked his shoulder bag. A pair of huge puppy-dog eyes stared back at him. “Hi, buddy,” he said in a baby voice.
“How’s the wompler?”
“In one piece,” he said to her. “Thank god… Right buddy?" Marcus said in a high-pitched, child-like tone. The thing honked.
Marcus removed the small, brilliantly-colored, goose-like creature with immense eyes from his bag and placed it in its living environment. “Man, 2065 is a weird time. But I got $800 for that ‘cassette’ thing," Marcus said holding up a small stack of $100’s. "The guy on it was named Prince. But he wasn't royalty. And he had a thing for the color purple." He shrugged. "I’ll take my 50% cut, and then trade this 21st-century-cash for a decent amount of credits.”
The trader looked down and noticed a pair of boxes laying on the floor. “What’s this?”
“Max the Weasel left those. He wants you to find the best prices for the stuff in the bigger box.”
“So, I gotta time-hop to the year each thing peaked in value."
“Yup. Then pawn the item there. Standard stuff. ”
“Yea, ok. The other box?”
“A 'thank you' box, for doing business. He said you can keep whatever you find in that one. Probably nothing of value in it.” Marcus motorboated his lips. “You did get lucky with that King… kerzmat thing though,” Angie continued.
“His name was Prince. And it was a cassette… The only other things of any value that Weasel ever sent me was that ‘Vote Jaden Smith in 2040’ button; and that Arnold Schwarzen-something guy’s cryogenically frozen biceps.”
Marcus grabbed the 'thank you' box, placed it on a chair and began rummaging through it. He chucked item after item into a corner. He got to a small, weathered, black book. "Look at this,” he muttered shaking his head. The gaunt man flipped casually through the dog-eared thing. He stopped. Something caught his eye. Lines of a forgotten craft stretched beautifully across the pages.
Marcus got to his feet, eyes fixed on the worn pages. He had learned about long-hand writing or script, as a child. But seeing the extinct skill in person, touching it — it was fascinating.
The fluid lines flowed like a soft and babbling brook. Each word transported the man from his grey world, to places inside himself he scarcely recognized. His mind soared. His heart ached. The words fashioned in the ancient form were like magic. He held the book to his chest.
“Are you OK?”
“Yea, Angie, I’m fine. Why?”
“I don't know... You look… never mind.”
Marcus flipped to the frayed, leathery cover. “Moleskin,” he read. “I bet they were a literary genius." He walked over to Angie and placed the weathered square of yesteryear into a contraption attached to her.
“Angie,” he said, “I’ve just loaded a book into your dock. Scan through the book. Find out who this ‘Moleskin’ character was, when he or she is from and whether or not they were famous at any point in earth’s history.”
“Got it.”
Several hours later, the enormous Angela-1 Hexa-Computer was beeping in the small room.
“You got something for me, Angie?”
“Yup.”
“Ok, hit me.”
“So, Moleskin was a company, not an person. They were a papermaker and product designer founded in 1997 in Milan, Italy. This particular journal looks like it was part of a run in the early 21st century.”
“The author in the journal?”
“A one R. Randriamamonjy.”
“A what?"
“R. Randriamamonjy. From Madagascar. Raised in New York City. Retired in San Francisco. With his partner and two cats. Early 21st century.”
“Huh?? Did he hit it big?”
“He published several books and acquired considerable fame in his time. But his hand-written manuscripts, like this one, achieved notoriety decades after his death during the exhumation of the Covid Renaissance.
“The what?”
“The Covid Renaissance. Apparently, great works of art were produced during a time when most of the earth’s population was under a quarantine. It was later discovered that the whole incident was an elaborate international hoax, spear-headed by a Dr. Anthony Fauci, and a computer magnate, something called Youtube and some pizza shop owners. You remember what pizza is.”
“Oh yea. That one can of Campbell’s Pizza Soup I stumbled upon in that box was astounding.”
“Yes. Well, looks like these private writings of Randriamamonjy’s fetched good money in 2132.”
“Ok, 2132 it is. Rybax!” Marcus said. The wompler honked and gobbled. “We’re going back to the 22nd century to cash in on a Madagascarian poet.”
“The adjective is Malagasy.”
“Yes mala… malasashee.”
The trader prepped an equipment pack and picked up the wompler. He placed it carefully in a separate shoulder bag. “Ok little guy,” he said. “It’s time to work your magic. We’re going for another ride, OK?” The little critter chirped back.
“Alright, I’m off like a dirty shirt. Eva, watch my vitals. Make sure I don’t have a heart attack or anything.”
“Your vitals look fine, Marcus. You won’t have a heart attack until at least 2594, with your present lifestyle.”
“Ok… Remind me to adjust your discretion settings when I get back… Alright, here goes nothing.”
He put his hand in his shoulder bag, atop the diminutive, rainbow space-fowl inside. He called up in his mind's eye images of where and when he wanted to land. The wompler gobbled, and began to shake wildly. It trilled ear-piercing pitches then went cross-eyed. Marcus’s hand on the galactic-goose burned as their connection intensified. The room vibrated and rattled, and a light entered the chamber from an upper corner. The beam curved into a whip, then sucked Marcus and the bird into a warbling space-time vortex. And with a whooshing sound, the luminescent gleam zipped back from where it had come and vanished.
Marcus was nauseous and in fetal position. He was lying in a vast, green field. The sun’s shimmering, wheat-colored rays stretched across the horizon and caressed the soft grass all around him. He looked at his tele band to ensure that he'd time-hopped to the right time and place.
“Golden Gate Park, SF, 2132... Perfect,” he said to himself.
Angie had prepped his gear with preset apps that would serve him in this day and time. He said into his tele band, “Address for Christie’s Auction house.”
“Googling,” a voice said, a facsimile of Angie’s, but not the real thing. “248 Pine Street,” the voice responded.
“Perfect. Uber.” he said.
“Calling you an Uber, powered by Facebook.”
“Excellent. Input Christie’s address.”
“Got it… Driver Wesley D is four blocks away. He’s got four and half stars. He’s friendly. And likes to talk about North West’s philosophies on space travel and life. He's also a Pisces.”
“Lovely.”
Marcus arrived at Christie’s a few minutes later where he was greeted by a tall, blonde woman in a pinstripe pant suit.
“Hi, welcome to Christie’s. My name's Stephanie. How can I help you?”
“I want to get this appraised,” he said, opening one side of his bag.
“A book. Wonderful. Follow me.”
Shed led him to a small room on the 2nd floor. A white table sat in its center. Marcus placed the black book atop the furniture and started, "It's a handwritten book of private poems by Randor Ramperama... ummm, he was Mala-sashimi... uhh... It’s a writer from Madagascar.”
"I see. David Jaomanoro?... Charlotte Arisoa?... Rado Randriamamonjy?"
"That's the one."
"Wonderful." The woman flipped through the book. The delicate pages bent and slid under her fingertips. She nodded. "Hmmm... Let me take this to our appraisers. Get comfortable. This could be a while."
"Ok, thank you."
The door shut behind Stephanie. Marcus opened his bag and removed the wompler from inside. He set him on the table. "Alright little guy, let’s get you some air. And don’t do anything crazy," he said wagging a finger. Marcus turned to grab Rybax's treats and when he looked back, the little time-bender had left a wee wompler surprise on the slab. Marcus stared at the tiny silver pile. "Are you serious?" The wompler honked. Marcus tilted his head sideways. ”You know, I could probably get millions for that thing, actually.” He thought for a moment. "Nah. That would require lots of explaining. And they'd probably poke and prod you for the rest of your life. Clip your wings. Examine your gizzard under a microscope.”
Rybax let loose a harsh honk and flapped furiously. The critter awkwardly launched himself from the ivory furniture and circled the room in fright. He flew in a zig-zag pattern, knocking over two pictures and a light fixture, until Marcus snatched him from the air. The trader surveyed the room, chest heaving. "Are you serious?!"
He fed the wompler some Attwood's Cat's Eye, a sedative, and returned him to the bag. The trader dry-heaved for hours, fraught with anxiety, as he spent the better part of the afternoon trying to re-fashion precious works, and toiling over a small expensive-looking light unit. When he was done, he stood back and examined his handiwork. Maybe she won’t notice.
Moments later, Stephanie flung open the door. "We have great news Mister—." She looked around. "Uhh... what the hell happened here?"
"I have a, uhhh... condition.”
“Hmmm. Well that ‘condition’ is going to cost you, Mr. Rusticitas. Those two pictures were originals by X Æ A-12 Musk."
“Ok, well, can you deduct that from my… uhhh good news?"
"Possibly." The woman motorboated her lips and shook her head. She retrieved a small laptop from her jacket and consulted it for more than 30 minutes. Security had come in and was refashioning the light fixture.
"Ok Mr. Rusticitas, are you ready?” Marcus nodded. “That Musk was appraised at $6.2M. And that one was appraised at $2.3M."
"The light fixture?”
"On the house."
"What does that leave me?"
"A grand total of $19,998."
Marcus felt a tear in his eye.
"We can round that up to $20,000. Let's call it, a thank you, for doing business. Where can I wire the money, sir?”
The auction house wired the money to a bank account Marcus had kept open for his time-hops. He had several accounts, in several countries, across several decades. He withdrew the money in one shot, to which the stunned teller responded, “Don’t go sightseeing with all that, honey."
"If you only knew," Marcus responded, the sting of the wasted $8M still twisting in his belly.
A beam of light entered the small room. The space shook and the radiance spit out the time traveler. He was holding a pair of bags in his hands.
“How’d it go?” Without a word, Marcus got to his feet and tossed a bag on his bed. “That good, huh?”
“I got $20,000.”
“$20,000?? That’s a big payday, Marcus!”
The trader held up the other bag still in his grasp. “It would’ve been $8M if it weren’t for this little pain.” Rybax gobbled and honked.
“Wait… what do you mean?”
“It’s a long story. I don’t wanna get into it. Anyways, I did pick this up. I think it might be worth something.” Marcus held up a silvery disc that read “Chappelle’s Show: Season 1”.
"Ooooo..." Angie said.
"What do you think?"
"Shiny."
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