journey-of-the-hob - Tumblr blog

journey-of-the-hob · 2 years

Text

Chapter III: Home Is Where You Hang Your Holster

I Stepped out of the car on the street. I was in the heart of downtown Fort Worth now. The highrise tenement building had been far too expensive for me to live in back in 2021. It had been bought out by some property firm who decided that if you didn’t have four grand a month for a cracker box, you couldn’t live there, but here it was just an old art deco building that wasn’t special in the slightest. In the 1960s the housing market hadn’t collapsed yet, and apartments were dirt cheap.

“Thanks for the lift Abby.” I said, grabbing my keys from her. “Do you need me to call you a cab?”

“Maybe in a bit. I wanna see this new apartment of yours” She replied with a smile.

I walked into the front office and there was a small manager's office just to the right of the lobby. Inside was a heavyset man sitting at a desk smoking a cigar and reading the newspaper. He didn’t acknowledge us, so I rang the bell on the front desk. He looked up, and made a cacophony of grumbling noises as he stood up.

“Can I help you, sir?” His voice was tired, and he had a somewhat squeaky, Texas drawl.

“I’m Ian O’Mara. Your new tenant?” I asked, leaning on the front desk.

“Oh yeah, yeah ,yeah. Them moving fellers were here earlier with your stuff. You weren’t supposed to come in until 5:30.” He said, walking around to the lobby. “But you’re here already so no point turning you away, come along.” He walked us over to the elevator. “Now we’ve got us one of them fancy new automatic elevators, ain't no need for an operator.”

“Wow...how modern” I had to feign excitement for an invention that I had been accustomed to for the entirety of my life up to this point.

“Now the lease was only for one, you didn’t mention your fiance here.” He gestured to Abby.

“Oh, no we’re not engaged…” I tried to explain the situation. To the old man.

“I must say it’s not very Christian to live in sin, Mr. O’Mara…” He interrupted.

“I think we’ve given you the wrong idea, I’m just Ian’s secretary.” Abby cut in to ease the tension.

“Oh Lord, me and my big mouth. You’ll excuse me for assuming the worst; Young folks are just so…promiscuous these days.” He explained capping his non-apology in a magnanimous tone.

After a few minutes the elevator arrived at the 10th floor. We all got off and the landlord showed me to my unit, 1011. The apartment was spacious, clean and had to have been over 1200 square feet . The walls had a blue pattern wallpaper. And all of the countertops were adorned in tiles. It was a beautiful place. It would be a shame in 50 years when some uninspired hack would just paint all the walls and cabinets white, then call it ‘moderne’.

“Alright, introductions, I’m Hank Polasek, I’m the landlord here, and if you need any maintenance done, I take care of that too. The rent is sixty-five dollars a month. Any problem with that son?” He asked, with an inquisitorial look.

“Not at all. That’s perfect.” I responded. $65 a month for this place. Even adjusted for inflation that was a steal. I think my heart might’ve skipped a beat when I heard that.

“Good now let's move on to the rules. Number One: I saw that you have a phonograph and a television when they were moving your stuff in here. No loud noise after ten PM sundays and weekdays, or midnight on Fridays and Saturdays. Rule Number Two: No visitors after 10 PM, period. Rule Number Three: You have to pick up your mail before six o’clock, because that’s when I lock the mail room, also no post pickup on Sundays. Are you clear on the rules?” Hank concluded, pushing his spectacles back up the bridge of his nose, then handed me the keys.

“Crystal. Thanks Hank.” I reached for the keys, but he pulled them away before I could grab them.

“It’s Mr. Polasek, son. Finish out your lease and then you can call me Hank.” He bluntly retorted, as he tossed the keys to me. He promptly left and shut the door behind him.

“Pretty hip apartment, Boss.” Abby replied, taking a seat on the sofa that was part of ‘my property’. “A little spacious though for a single guy.”

“Well maybe I’ll have people over.” I mused, as I walked over to the numerous boxes marked as records sitting next to a wooden stereo cabinet. If I was in Hell, at least I had an excellent music selection.

“If you ever decide to, let me know. I’ll bring some of my Beatles records.” She stood up and straightened her skirt. “I’ll see you at the office. Try to relax, and get some rest.”

I spent the rest of the afternoon and evening unpacking the boxes in my apartment. I didn’t find anything of any importance like photos or documents, but I found that all of the clothes in the boxes were sized to fit me, and a few of the suits were tailor made. It was odd knowing that there was such a specific place made for me in whatever the existence in the 60s was, but I didn’t know where to even begin to place my thoughts on where or how that could be. In a box I found a bottle of Chivas Regal scotch and a couple of glasses, so I decided to have a drink. I sat down at the desk, and fed a sheet of paper into a typewriter. I punched the keys and began to write my thoughts:

Where Am I?

I’m in a coma.

I’m dead, and this Limbo/The Hereafter.

I time traveled somehow .

I’ve landed in a parallel dimension.

I’m in a simulation.

I’m having a vivid drug trip.

I’ve had a psychotic breakdown.

…

I left it blank. I would let it represent the unknown. Things I hadn’t thought of yet, or things I wouldn’t be able to comprehend. I think that’s the one that frightened me most of all. I took another sip of the scotch, but heard a familiar voice in my ear.

“That’s a nice little list. Almost all of it is wrong though.” The words were followed by a chilling chuckle. I turned around and it was him again. The Silver Haired Man. I fell out of the chair I was sitting in.

“Who are you? Tell me now.” My words didn’t come out as authoritatively as I would’ve liked, but something about the mere presence of him shot my nerves to Hell.

“Say, could I have a glass of that?” He smiled, as he pointed at the bottle of Chivas. I couldn’t say anything. The only sound in the apartment now was my own heavy breathing.

“Tell me your damn name, and how I got here.” I demanded as I drew the revolver from the holster under my arm.

“Oh please, Ian. We both know you’re not gonna shoot me.” He chuckled again and poured some scotch.

“Try me. I’m sick and tired of flying blind here. I want to go home, and you’re going to tell me how.” I drew the hammer back, and stiffened my grip.

“You know you should be thanking me. Most people don’t get a chance like the one you’re getting. It’s like you’re on a once in a lifetime vacation.” He casually replied, swirling the brown liquid in his glass. “Embrace your status as an expat of time. Enjoy the food, kiss a girl, have fun.” He sounded like he thought he was doing me a favor.

“Wrong answer.” I pulled the trigger. I prepared myself for the bang, for the recoil, but instead just a click. I looked up, and he dropped a handful of bullets into the glass I had been drinking from. I checked the cylinder on the revolver and it was empty. How had he unloaded it?

“God you are just such a killjoy. I gave you all of this, and you’re ungrateful. You’re spinning your wheels trying to solve some murder case that one cares about. Trying to get back to modern times. How about you take a glance at what the ‘real world is like for you’. He snapped his fingers and the television in my apartment switched on. As I glanced back he had disappeared into thin air again.

I heard something, not on the tv, but in my ear, as if it was happening right in front of me. People talking, the sound of feet shuffling, and on the television I could see shadowy figures. I sat in the recliner and tried to watch. To see what was happening. After a few moments the muttering was growing louder, but I still couldn’t understand. Just then a sharp, high pitched noise began to rise in my ear. It was unbearable, and it kept growing louder until I heard someone call out. “Clear!”

I felt an immense pain in my chest out of nowhere like someone had just hit me center mass with a baseball bat. I fell to the ground, and in the shock of it all I couldn’t even make a noise of pain. I heard the voice again, this time louder “Clear!” The pain came on stronger this time. I found myself rolling on the floor barely able to breathe. One last time I heard the voice.

“Clear!” After the pain hit again, I could hear a faint beeping that seemed to trail off. “We’ve got a beat.” The voice said as I drifted out of consciousness.

Eventually I came to, still lying on the floor. The tv was projecting a test pattern. I had no idea what time it was, but eventually the test pattern flickered, and the picture came on the screen. It was a doctor staring right into the camera. He took a pen light, and shined it around before snapping his fingers a few times.

“Ian? Ian, can you hear me?” He softly asked.

“I can hear you. Yeah I can hear you!” I called out. I was still groggy from the pain, so I could only crawl over to the tv.

“Ian, You’ve been in a coma for some time now, and if you don’t show us some sign of life, they’re going to shut your life support off at the end of the week.” he said, with the melancholy in his eyes and voice.

“Look at me! I’m right here! I’m awake!” I screamed as I banged on the glass of the television screen. “Don’t turn the machines off! It’s only been a few hours! Please! Listen! I’m here!”

The doctor snapped his fingers a few times, but gave a defeated sigh before shaking his head and walking away. The TV went to static after that, and I switched it off. I felt tears roll down my cheeks, and laid back on the floor before passing out.

I awoke in the morning to see sunlight coming through my blinds. I looked down to see that I was in the bed of my new apartment. I felt my chest only to realize there was no pain from the ordeal the previous evening. I remembered passing out on the floor, and that was all. It could’ve been possible that all of that was a dream, and to be frank part of me wishes that it was. I walked into the living room and saw the two glasses of scotch still there. That would mean that the visit from the Weird Old Man happened at least. I went to the kitchen and started to make coffee in a percolator that I found in a box. I nosed through the cabinets and fridge to see what there was in the way of food, only to be disappointed that there were only a couple cans of soup to be had. I would have to get some groceries, but before I could think about it the phone on the wall began to ring..

“Hello?” I began to stretch it over to the counter so I could pour a cup of coffee.

“Good, you're awake. How’d you sleep?” It was Abby.

“Not great. I think I was having some…bad dreams.” I answered.

“Sorry to hear that, Boss. Will you be coming into the office today?” she asked. I could hear the shuffling of papers through the handset.

“Yeah I will. Give me a few minutes to get dressed, and I’ll be there. Is Cole in yet?” I asked.

“He is. He’s still…let’s call it upset about yesterday. If I were you I’d tread carefully when you get here.”

“I’ll keep that in mind. Thanks Abby.” I hung up the phone, and drank my coffee. After a few minutes I took a shower, got dressed, and began to head to the office. I was in a bit of a daze, as I still didn’t know what to make of the things I saw the previous evening. Was it a dream within a dream? Was there a doctor somewhere back in 2021 that was going to take me off life support If I didn’t show signs of life? I think the oddest thing from the whole ordeal was the phrasing that I had been in a coma for a long time; Long enough for it to be considered time to take me off life support, but I had only been in 1964 for about twelve hours at that point. Maybe the time scale of this world was different somehow. In any case it didn’t matter, I had a job to do, and not one moment to lose. I pulled up to the curb and headed up to my office. As I opened the door Cole was waiting for me.

“About time you showed up, Ian.” He picked his hat up off the coat rack.

“Sorry Cole, slow morning. What’s the plan for the Carnes case?” I asked, walking over to get another cup of coffee.

“That depends, are you actually invested this time, or do you plan to keep acting like a raving lunatic?” He asked, putting a crease in the brim of his hat.

“Cole, I can assure you that I am more invested in this case than anyone else you’re liable to meet.” I met his gaze. I think that was the most truthful thing I’d said since I got here.

“Good. I want you to go canvass the universities. Her father said that she was in school. I’m gonna go downtown to see if anyone from the bars remembers her face.” Cole said, turning to leave.

“Which one? Wesleyan or TCU? Those are both big campuses, I’ll need to narrow down the search somehow.” I asked.

“Just read the file Ian. I don’t have time for all the minutiae of this case. We have to focus on the bigger picture. Abby, sugar, get the file for him.” He closed the door behind him. It was slowly becoming clear that Cole seemed to view detective work as some kind of dodge or hustle, as opposed to a diligent process.

“Oh yeah, downtown my ass. He’s just gonna go round up the usual suspects: Jack Daniels, Jim Beam, and Johnnie Walker.” Abby grumbled, as she began shuffling through her filing cabinet. Eventually she walked over to my desk and sat on the edge placing it in front of me. I opened it and began skimming. Abby leaned over to see the file as well. She brushed a strand of her blond hair behind her ear, and looked up at me. We locked eyes, her sapphire blues hypnotized me every time. She grinned a bit, with a smile that could melt an iceberg.

“I, uh…thanks Abby.” Was all I managed to get out.

“Ian, you’re blushing a bit.” Her smile grew. I would be lying if I said that Abby wasn’t attractive. She was a gorgeous, blonde, bombshell. I don’t know why I would be feeling like this. She wasn’t real. She was a figment of my imagination. A subconscious representation of what a fusion of Catherine Deneuve and Audrey Hepburn would look like. And yet, she made my heart race whenever she looked my way.

“I…I am not. It’s just a bit warm in here is all.” I tried to change the subject, and looked down at the file. “Here we go. Carolina Carnes was a student at TCU, majoring in Classic Literature, and was a member of the Gamma Phi Beta sorority.” If I wanted to get a heading on where Carolina had gone, I had a few good leads to start on.

I left the office and headed over to the TCU campus. It was much different than I remembered it from hanging out with friends back in 2021. A few buildings were missing, and a few of the old ones still looked brand new. After a short stroll I found the sorority house that Carolina had belonged to and I walked inside. There was a young woman probably about 19 or 20 reading a book and taking notes.

“Excuse me, I’m looking for someone who might be able to help me.” I said, trying to get her attention. She looked up with a jolt, and pushed her glasses up the bridge of her nose.

“You startled me. Sorry I was miles away.” She replied. “How can I help?”

“I’m looking for Carolina Carnes. Have you seen her?” I asked and pulled a picture of her that I took from the case file.

“Well first off, she has a boyfriend. Second, who are you to be asking?” She shot back in an accusatory tone of voice.

“I think you might have the wrong idea. I’m Ian O’Mara. I’m a private detective, and her father sent me to look for her.” I answered.

“Oh cool, so you’re like Sam Spade or Philip Marlowe, or something?” Her eyes lit up. I could tell by the reference that she was a fan of crime fiction. “So do you have a badge or something?”

“I don’t think I’m as suave as Bogie, and we don’t have badges. I wouldn’t believe everything you see on TV.” I smirked and showed her my P.I. license to prove I was who I said I was. “I need you to tell me the last time you saw Carolina.”

“It was about three months ago. The semester had just started, and then one night she just never showed up.” She replied. “Some cops came and asked a few questions back in September, but after that we never heard anything.”

“Okay, did she seem distressed or upset by anything?” I prodded.

“No. She seemed happy to be back. A lot of girls view the study part of college as a drag, but Lina was always really into it, y’know?”

“You mentioned a boyfriend? Her father didn’t say anything about that. Can you give me some info on him?” I asked.

“I’m not surprised. She always said her old man was a square, and would’ve blown a gasket if she knew she had one. His name is Carver Bolton, He’s about to graduate with his bachelor’s in economics, and he’s on the rowing team. I only met him once at a party, but he seemed nice.”

“Alright. I don’t suppose Carolina had a picture of him, or maybe you know where he’d be today?” I asked, as I took out a notepad, and jotted down all the info I had gotten so far.

“Yeah he was having a meeting with the Campus Democrats today over by the business building, I think it should still be going on. As for a picture, Lina had one in her room, let me go grab it.” She ran up the stairs, and after a few minutes she came back down. “Here, this is the only one that I could find.” She replied as she handed me a string of pictures that came from a photo booth. There was also a scrap of paper with the name Ellie written on it along with a phone number.

“What’s this?” I playfully inquired.

“That’s my phone number. Just in case you need to…ask any more questions.” She smiled and tried to close the gap between us.

“Well, if I can think of any good ones I’ll call you.” I replied as I took my leave.

I don’t know where the burst of confidence came from to flirt with that girl, but I guess if this was a coma fantasy that my mind had cooked up I could enjoy it just a little. God knows girls never flirted with me like that in the waking world. After reflecting on my sudden slip into playing Detective Casonova with a co-ed, I looked at the picture. Carolina and this guy Carver smiling and laughing in a photo booth. He looked like he was a few years younger than me. He had a conservative haircut, and square facial features, almost like a composite of every high school quarterback. If I wanted to find a new lead on Carolina, I needed to find him first.

#short story #sfw

9 notes · View notes

journey-of-the-hob · 2 years

Text

I made a post last night because I had a bad one and I was mad and just wanted to rant, but I didn’t think it through. I deleted it and I’m sorry for posting it.

#apology

2 notes · View notes

journey-of-the-hob · 2 years

Text

It’s happening. Part 5 of God of Chaos was flagged. All the images I used passed the auto review, so that means it was manually flagged. I’m not going to appeal because I won’t win. I guess someone on Tumblr finally found me and is coming after my posts. If there’s a favorite story I did with pictures you enjoyed I’d say screencap them now because I don’t know how much more of this is about to happen.

-Hob

#ban hammer

2 notes · View notes

journey-of-the-hob · 2 years

Text

Have a New Years. Enjoy it if you can. If you have someone you love, hold them close and tell them.

-Hob

#enjoy if you can #2022

3 notes · View notes

journey-of-the-hob · 2 years

Text

Me: Finally I have a few days of vacation from work. I can’t wait to catch up on content from my favorite adult content blogs.

Tumblr: This content has been hidden due to its potentially sensitive nature.

Me:

#meme #ban hammer

9 notes · View notes

journey-of-the-hob · 2 years

Text

Can people still view my blog? I’ve seen that I can’t access some of my contemporaries’ pages. Is my content still visible?

#update #ban hammer

12 notes · View notes

journey-of-the-hob · 2 years

Text

8 notes · View notes

journey-of-the-hob · 2 years

Text

Is it just me or are a lot of the creators in this community getting nuked recently? Three people I used to follow just vanished without warning.

7 notes · View notes

journey-of-the-hob · 2 years

Text

Chapter II: Stranger in a Strange Land

I sat on the ground for a few minutes trying to work out a few thoughts on what to do. Eventually I came to the realization that I was hungry. I looked around and saw a diner called ‘Phillies’ across the street. In my time some kind of banking building occupied the plot of land, but I guess it was as good a place as any other to collect my thoughts. I walked in and took a seat at the bar. It was the hour in between breakfast and lunch, and aside from the waitress I was the only one there.

“Mornin’ hon. What can I get you?” I heard the waitress ask. I looked up at her. She had a round, friendly face with short raven hair. She was in her 30s by my guess.

“You guys still serving breakfast?” I sheepishly asked, loosening my necktie.

“All day. Anything in particular you want darlin'?” she replied. I glanced at the nametag pinned to her uniform. It read Billie.

“Yeah, scrambled eggs, sausage, hash browns , and some coffee please” I answered as I pinched the bridge of my nose.

My order was up, and I began to eat. The food tasted good. Really good in fact, of course it would. Back in the 1960s the turn to overly processed food hadn’t happened yet. About that time a man sat down next to me. He was old, maybe in his late 60s. He had a shock of silver hair with a thin mustache. The whites of his eyes were yellowing, and he had a smirk on his face like he knew something that everyone else didn’t. I don’t think he would’ve been noteworthy if not for the fact that he came out of nowhere. The doorbell hadn’t rung, and I hadn’t heard the door to the bathroom open either. Billie, the attentive waitress, hadn't acknowledged his presence either. Something was wrong about this guy.

“Outta Time?” He asked. His voice was raspy and gruff.

“Yeah it’s quarter past eleven” I responded looking at the new, unfamiliar Timex on my wrist.

“No...I wasn’t asking a question about time. I was making an observation about it. You’re out of time, aren’t you, Ian?” he chuckled a bit. I remembered the voice and eerie laugh. It was the one from the radio.

“You know what’s going on don’t you? Why am I here? How did you do this to me?” I asked in a hushed tone through gritted teeth. “How do I get home? Back to 2021?”

“The answer to your second question, is the answer to your first. Good luck figuring it out boy.” The man rasped. “It’s getting pretty late. Get a clue, kid. Why don’t you go to work, assuming you have a job.”

I looked over my shoulder, but when I turned back the old man had vanished. I don’t know how he managed to vanish into thin air or who he was, but I think I was more focused on how he seemed to know my situation. He knew how to get me back to my time, but he wasn’t telling. He was playing some kind of cosmic riddle game with me, and I think he just gave me a hint. I pulled out my wallet, and fished out the business card of the detective agency that I found earlier. Perhaps this is where I worked, or the Ian O’Mara of 1964 worked anyway, and it might have had some answers. I got the ticket for my breakfast which came out to $1.10. Had to love 1960s prices; I gave Billie a $5 and she was ecstatic. I tried to figure out why, until I realized that with inflation I just tipped her the equivalent of $40.

I got into my car and drove to the address on the card, and as I made my way I began to ponder my circumstances. Was I really here as myself, or was there another Ian O’Mara somewhere in the past whose life I had been inserted into? In my reflection I still looked like me, and since these were the day before IDs had pictures on them I had no point of reference on whether or not he looked different. I guess I would have to find someone who knew him and/or me to see. After a few minutes of driving through downtown I saw a neon sign protruding from the side of a highrise building that spelled out: Third Eye Detective Agency, topped with an Eye of Providence. I parked the car and walked in. After finding a directory on the wall, I saw that the office was located on the third floor. I walked to the elevator and there was a man in a maroon uniform standing by the controls.

“Good morning Mr. O’Mara.” He offered with a cheerful tone of voice. “Bit of a late start, and if you don’t mind my saying so, you’re looking a little out of sorts today.”

“Oh you have no idea.” I responded with a nervous chuckle; in all of my confusion and stress it was an uncontrollable reaction.

“Well don’t you worry sir. We’ll get you to your office, and a couple cups of coffee will set you straight.” He retorted. The elevator shuffled to a stop and the operator slid the gate open. “Your floor sir.”

I walked down the hallway until I saw a door with a frosted glass window with the letterhead of the company printed on. I opened the door and saw a relatively large sitting room with a wall dividing the back office. In the corner there was a secretary desk. Behind it was a woman with her feet on the desk and her face covered by a copy of Harper’s Bazaar. As I shut the door she put the magazine down and stood up. She had delicate features, large piercing blue eyes, with long blonde hair. She looked to be in her mid 20s. Before I could think of something to say, she put her hands on her hips, and gave me a playfully disapproving stare.

“And what sort of time do you call this?” She asked before walking towards me. She was wearing a white blouse with the sleeves rolled up, black skirt, and a pair of hose with a slight diamond pattern. “Well I can tell by that slack-jawed stare that my outfit was a success.” she giggled and pushed my mouth shut, causing me to snap back to my train of thought.

“I..uh..sorry I’m late…” I gazed towards her desk and saw the name placard: Abigail Blackthorne. “A-Abigail...sorry I’m late.” I stammered. She looked at me closely for a second before speaking again.

“It’s Abby...You never call me Abigail. Something’s not right with you Ian. Are you okay?” Her look turned from suspicion to concern.

“Umm...no...no, not really.” I replied as I rubbed the back of my head. Though it wasn’t as painful as when I fell down the stairs it still throbbed a bit.

“What happened to you? We’ve been waiting on you all morning. You had me worried. Cole said that you probably were at the movies again, but I made him go look for you.” Abby explained. She mentioned someone named Cole. Maybe he was someone else I could get some information from.

“I-uh...Well I was at the movies, but I fell down the stairs, and..” Abby cut me off before I could finish.

“Oh my God, Ian! Are you okay?! Do you need to go to the hospital?” She asked, immediately trying to examine my head for a wound.

“No. Thankfully I didn’t crack anything, at least I don’t think I did.” I said stepping back and sitting in one of the chairs in the office. “I seem to be having trouble remembering a few things though.”

“Really? Like amnesia? That’s crazy! I think I saw that on an episode of General Hospital, or maybe it was The Doctors.” She trailed off, seemingly forgetting about the conversation at hand.

“Abby, how close would you say that we are?” I asked, returning her attention.

“Friendly I suppose. Why do you ask?” She turned her gaze back to me. Her eyes caused me to lose my train of thought for just a moment.

“Well you might be able to help me fill in the gaps in my memory. You know? Help me get myself back together.”

“Well that should be easy. I am your secretary after all, so I know just about everything about your day to day routine.” Abby hopped up and went back to her desk, pulling out a date book.

I was finally about to get some answers, even if just some mundane ones. I heard the doorknob turn, and the door to the office opened. A man in a blue three-piece suit walked in the front door, and put a hat on the coat rack.

“There you are! Where’ve you been? I’ve been looking for you all morning.” his voice had a bit of twang in it, but he wasn’t from Texas. It sounded like the sort of French lilt that you hear in Louisiana. “You had poor Abby worried sick.”

“Sorry about that...Cole.” I gambled on his name.

“Well sorry don’t pay the bills, and you best remember that son. Now straighten that tie, we’ve got a client coming soon, and If I’m right there could be a lot of money in for us.” he said, almost as if to his reflection as he preened in the mirror by the door.

“Well I was about to read the itinerary for Ian, since he just got in. If that's alright with you Cole.” Abby pointedly interjected.

“Abby, sugar, what did I say the other day about being too familiar?” he replied as he turned back around. He leered at Abby, and with his sharp features it reminded me of the way a hawk looks at its prey.

“Very well, MISTER Gilliam.” Abby retorted, her eyes rolling all the while.

“That’s better, cher. Get on with it.” He was still fidgeting with his clothes, straightening his tie, adjusting the chain on his pocket watch. So far this Cole guy seemed insufferable.

“Okay Ian, Mr. Ponsonby stopped by this morning to deliver the order you placed last week, I put it on your desk. You've got some invoices to sign for the Ramierez and Donahue cases. You and Mr. Gilliam have a meeting with a client in about 15 minutes, I’ll let him prep you for that one. As for your messages, you have one from a moving company, that all of your stuff has been moved into your new apartment, and you need to meet with your new landlord to pick up the keys this afternoon at 5:30.” Abby explained closing the date book.

“Thanks. Can you call them back and get the address for the apartment building?” I asked.

“Well now that doesn’t make a lick of sense. Why would you need the address of your own apartment?” Cole asked, cocking an eyebrow.

“I had a bit of a fall walking down some stairs this morning. My memory’s a bit...off.” I replied.

“Well you came into the office so I’ll assume it’s not too severe. Have a nip of scotch and sort yourself out. We’ve got a business to run.” He replied beckoning me into the back office.

The back office had two desks, mine being the one on the left, a large set of bookcases and filing cabinets, as well as a large window that showed the whole skyline of Fort Worth. I couldn’t believe how much it had changed. I realized that I had to get some facts straight about the life I found myself inhabiting. From the way that Abby and Cole casually accepted my appearance I could tell that if there was an Ian O’Mara in the 60s I looked like him at least. I went over to the desk with my name on it and started poking through drawers. Mostly I found the type of things that you’d expect to find in a detective’s desk: files, stationary, handcuffs, but nothing of any importance to my situation. On the desk there was a framed photograph of what looked like me and Cole shaking hands by the front door of the office. There was writing on the photograph that read: The Boys start an Agency, 1959. There was another that showed me, Cole, and Abby sharing drinks in the office next to a Christmas tree, and this one read: Merry Christmas, 1963.

The more I saw my face in the photos I came to the conclusion that I wasn’t inhabiting someone else’s life, but rather I had a bespoke one for me here in 1964, but that didn’t make any more sense than any other theory. If this life was made for me, who made it? Why? If it was real, was it even time travel? Maybe it was some kind of simulation, maybe it was some kind of parallel universe. I was hoping that coming to this office would give me answers, but instead it only offered more questions. I turned my gaze down towards the package on my desk. I untied the twine and ripped off the paper. Inside was a polished wooden box with a letter on top. I opened it and started to read.

‘Dear Mr. O’Mara,

Here is the handgun that you ordered from my shop. As per the order, it is a Smith & Wesson Model 29 .44 with a six inch barrel. I made the additional alterations that you asked for. I upgraded the action, and engraved the frame, barrel, and cylinder. I hope that the order is to your liking, and if you need anything else please let us know. As always, I appreciate your repeat business.

-Jack Ponsonby, Owner and Proprietor, Ponsonby’s Fine Sporting Goods and Gunsmith.’

I opened the case and there was the large frame revolver exactly as described in the letter, it had a high polish blued finish, with swirling engraving patterns, and a carved grip made of sandalwood. As I inspected it I noticed that on the backstrap the words ‘Gáe Bolga’ engraved there. It was a beautiful gun, but in my handling of it I heard Cole speak up.

“Good lord, Ian. What are you gonna do with that thing? Hunt elephants?” He asked. Lighting a cigarette.

“I guess I was trying to protect myself from something.” I responded, checking the sights. I rummaged through the desk and found a shoulder holster in one of the drawers. It was a tight fit for the gun but it would work. “I haven’t shot a gun since I was a kid.” I had memories of going hunting with my dad, but when I reached high school age it just fell by the wayside.

“What are you talking about? We went to the range last week.” Cole replied, casting a disapproving stare in my direction.

“I mean. That it always makes me feel like a kid.” I gave a nervous smile. Cole held out the box Luckies and offered me a cigarette. “No thanks, I don’t smoke.”

“Since when?” he shot back, narrowing his gaze further. “You’ve been smoking like a chimney for at least the five years I’ve known you.”

I was drawing too much attention to myself. I had to change the subject. Before I had the chance Abby opened the door and walked in with an older gentleman.

“Mr. Carnes, this is Ian O’Mara and Cole Gilliam, the detectives that will be handling your case.” She made the introductions and sat down next to my desk with a steno pad and a pencil. This man, Carnes. He looked very familiar, but I couldn’t put my finger on why.

“Mr. Carnes we spoke on the phone. You said that you had an urgent matter that you needed to discuss with me and my associate.” Cole stated. He leaned forward in his chair, and locked his fingers together. I could tell by his body language that Cole fancied himself as some kind of dandy detective with the likes of C. Auguste Dupin or Hercule Poirot.

“It’s my daughter, gentlemen. She's been missing for three months and police have found nothing. They say that they have their top men on it, but I know that they’ve already filed it away somewhere.” the old man explained. Mr. Carnes was a very rotund man, with a receding hairline, and bushy mustache. He was trying to keep himself composed, but I could see his face beginning to redden behind his spectacles.

“Mr. Carnes, can you give us some more information about your daughter? Her name, age, something like that?” I asked, trying to get more information.

“Carolina. She’s my only child. She had just turned 18 a few months ago, and she’s gone. Vanished to God only knows where. Carnes used a pocket square to wipe some sweat from his forehead.

“Of course! You’re Ulysses Carnes, the freight magnate. I knew I recognized you.” I couldn’t help but interject. I remembered his name, or more accurately the case of his daughter’s disappearance. It was a notable cold case in the state of Texas that I had heard about once in a true crime documentary. “The Carolina Carnes cold case. I remember when that happened!” The eyes of everyone in the room were on me in bewildered stares. “I-uh mean I remember reading about that case in the paper.”

“Mr. O’Mara, I resent the insinuation that the status of my daughter’s disappearance is a foregone conclusion. Wherever she is, I know that she is still alive...a father always knows. Carnes stated in full belief that he was correct.

“Too right, Mr. Carnes. I’m sure wherever your Carolia is, she is safe, and just needs to be brought home. Maybe she ran off with a boy or some other foolishness.” Cole said, trying to disarm Mr. Carnes.

“I reject your implications as well, Mr. Gilliam. My daughter is a good Christian girl, she wouldn’t run off with a boy like some kind of trollop.” He had turned his fiery gaze away from me and towards Cole. “Gentlemen, I believe that I made a mistake trying to bring my business here.”

“Not true, sir! Our agency has a ninety-seven-percent closure rate for the cases that we’ve undertaken. If you just give us a chance I’m certain that we can find your daughter.” Cole kept trying to salvage Mr. Carnes’ trust.

“One week. You have one week to find my daughter. If you do not produce results. I will take my business to another agency, do I make myself clear Mr. Gilliam?” Carnes flatly stated as he stood. He placed a picture of his daughter on my desk and turned to leave.

“Mr. Carnes, sir. Please, the deductive process could take longer than…” Cole was cut off by a stare from Mr. Carnes. It was an intense kind of stare. The kind that could stop a stampeding herd dead in its tracks. Abby showed Mr. Carnes to the door, and closed it behind them. “What in the blue fuck was that?! Where the Hell do you get off thinking you can act like that towards a client?! I had the pump primed, Ian! He was gonna put us on retainer! It would’ve kept the lights on for the rest of the year!” Cole screamed, as he walked back into the main office.

“I figured it out this is why I’m here...” I was musing out loud, but I think I had figured it out.

“No you’re here to make me regret the day I ever signed a business contract with you!” Cole angrily retorted.

“No...that’s it! If I find her, or at least find out where she is I can go home!” I said. That must be the trick. I was being tested by some cosmic power, and if I could solve this case they would let me go home. That must have been what the man in the diner meant when he said ‘get a clue’.

“You wanna go home? Abby! I want you to drive him to his apartment.” Cole was angry, but I was tuning him out. “Now you hear this, Ian. I don’t know what that fall fucked up in your head, but you come back with it screwed on straight, or you stay away you understand?”

Abby grabbed her coat, and we left the office. I told her that I was fine to drive, but out of concern Abby insisted, so I let her. We got in the Impala, and she began to drive. My head was swirling. I might still not have known how I got here, or where here even was, but I knew how to get back. I had a gut feeling that this case was connected, and if I could solve it, whoever was keeping me here would let me go.

“Ian, why did you act like that back there? You normally seem that you have it all put together, but that was really out of character.” Abby asked.

“Because I know this case. Carolina Carnes disappeared in 1964, and the cops were never able to find any suspects or evidence of where she went, so they declared it a cold case. Ulysses Carnes never stopped trying to find her. His freight business went bankrupt, and he slipped into obscurity sometime around 1976.” I explained. I’ll admit I hadn’t done a deep dive into the case, but I remembered everything from the show I watched about it.

“See, but that’s the problem. You just did it again, like at the meeting.” She replied.

“Did what, Abby? I don’t get it?” I couldn’t tell what she was getting at.

“Talking about all of this in the past tense. How do you know that Carnes will go broke in 1976? How do you know that no one will find her? Most important Ian, how do you know so many details about this case? I know that Cole didn’t say anything about it before today.” The way she was looking at me...I could see that was genuine concern there.

“I’m…” I wanted to say it. I wanted to tell her that I fell out of my own time and landed in 1964, but how could she understand? I was here at the epicenter of it, and I didn’t even understand it. “I’m...not sure. I just feel like as soon as I heard Carnes tell me I could see what was going to happen.”

“So what, you're psychic or something? You fell down some stairs, and now you’re clairvoyant?” She giggled. I could tell that she was trying to break up the tension.

“No. It’s just a feeling. Besides, I am going to find her, or at least someone who knows where she is, and I’m going to save her. I have to.” I replied.

“But why does it have to be you? Why are you treating this case like it’s the end of the world?” Abby sounded concerned again

“Maybe it is. Maybe my future depends on it.” That cryptic statement was as close to the truth as I could get. “She’s missing, and I’ve got a week. I guess you could say that we’re both running out of time.”

#short story #sfw

10 notes · View notes

journey-of-the-hob · 2 years

Text

Well for those of you who liked my SFW short story I just finished chapter 2. I can post it, but it would be longer than chapter one. I think that since I shook off the rust the rest of the chapters will flow a bit better.

#update #short story

3 notes · View notes

journey-of-the-hob · 2 years

Text

The SFW short story chapter one is posted below. Let me know what you guys think.

#update

2 notes · View notes

journey-of-the-hob · 2 years

Text

Chapter I: Out of Time

Ennui. Noun. A feeling of listlessness and dissatisfaction arising from a lack of preoccupation or excitement. That’s what I was feeling. I had my job, and my apartment, and my car, but those were just things. I had no accomplishments to be proud of. I hadn’t gone anywhere special or done anything. I used one of my sick days to sort myself out and get away from the office. Somehow when I was in college I never saw myself selling insurance. I always wanted to do something more exciting, but sometimes you have to go where the money is. I always felt out of phase with life around me.

I needed to do something to get my mind off things, so I did the only thing that I could think of: I went to the movies. Whenever I felt like things were too depressing I would always go to the movies and see whatever was on, and even if the film wasn’t particularly good, the experience of going made me feel better. It was a brisk day in Fort Worth. As a Texan, cold weather was always welcomed by me, as I didn’t get it very often. I parked my car on the street and put some money in the meter. After a short walk I saw the theater. It was an AMC now, but once upon a time it was the El Ocaso, of course that was a long time ago. The lobby was empty, but then again it was 10-in-the-morning on a Monday, so I figured not too many people would be tripping over themselves to go see a movie.

At the ticket desk there was Cyril. He was an old timer who still worked, not because he needed the money, but because he just liked movies, but more importantly I think he just wanted people to talk to.

“Well, well...look who it is! My favorite customer!” he said with a warm smile, and extended his arm for a handshake.

“Hey Cyril. What’s new?” I asked, gripping his aged hand.

“Oh the same old. Ian, I don’t want to pry, but shouldn’t you be at work?” he asked with a disapproving look.

“Day off. I’m too well to attend.” I replied. Cyril gave a laugh and slapped the counter of his ticket desk. “What’s showing in Theater Six?”

“Hard Day’s Night. Yeah that was a good one. I remember I worked in this theater when it premiered, must’ve been...hmmm...64! That’s it, it was August of 1964. The theaters were packed, and we ran the film through twice playing it.” Cyril trailed off. “I think it was good that it came out when it did. Those limeys really perked everyone up. I was 17 then, and people were still reeling from JFK, especially since we were so close to Dallas. Ahhhh! I’m rambling you don’t want to hear all of my old rambling.” he said abruptly ending his remineces.

“Don’t be so sure. I always thought the 60s were always pretty cool. The music, the movies...I bet it would've been something to see.” I said. I always liked Cyril’s stories. He had a lot of life experience, and he knew every piece of obscure movie trivia you could think of, and honestly I think I needed someone to talk to about as much as he did. “You sold me on it. One for Hard Day’s Night.”

“It’s a good one. Help yourself to some popcorn. They’ve got me on concessions until the afternoon shift. I’ll settle up with you later. God knows I don’t feel like walking up all those stairs again.” He grumbled.

I helped myself and went off to Theater Six. It was a small reserved theater that they kept separate to show movies that were on their way out, older movies, and cult classics. I spent most of my time here, and with the exception of a homeless guy trying to catch a nap, I was the only regular. The movie played, and between comedic bits, and Beatles classics I forgot my problems just for an hour and twenty seven minutes. I threw my popcorn away and walked back towards the lobby. I heard Cyril shout up to me.

“Ian! Hey kid, watch your step. I was mopping the stairs. They might be a little slippery!” before I could even look down, I had lost my footing.

I tumbled. Felt my head bang on the marble floors, the sharp pain in my ribs as they connected with the stairs, and finally relief when I reached the base of the stairwell. I was alive, and my neck was unbroken. For all the pain I was in, nothing felt like it was fractured or bleeding. Through the ringing in my ears I could hear a voice. It was a young voice asking if I was alright. I opened my eyes, and my vision was blurry, but it cleared after some time. There was a young man with shaggy blonde hair standing over me.

“Hey mister! Are you okay! You fell down the stairs. Do you need an ambulance?!” He asked bowing to my side,

“No, that’s alright kid. I’ve just got a headache. I think I’m okay.” I said rubbing my temple. Something wasn’t quite right, but I couldn’t put my finger on it.

“Please don’t tell my manager! I really need this job.” The kid begged as he helped me to my feet.

“Don’t worry about it. It was my own fault for not looking where I was going. Thanks for the hand up though…” I narrowed my gaze to read his nametag. It read Cyril. It had to be some kind of practical joke or something from one of the teenagers that Cyril worked with. “Uh nevermind I’m gonna go home. Thanks.”

I walked out of the theater, and on the street things had changed. There were a bunch of classic cars peppering the street, people were dressed differently, in a more old fashioned way. In a window I saw my reflection, and I couldn’t believe it. When I left my apartment this morning I was wearing a sweater and some blue jeans, now I was wearing a sage colored suit. My hair was shorter and slicked back, and I was clean-shaven. I wouldn’t have believed it had not touched my face and felt my beard gone. I started to walk. I couldn’t freak out. There had to be a rational explanation for this. Maybe they were shooting a movie, or tv show, or something. I cast my gaze upwards, and the skyline of Fort Worth had changed too. The towers of steel and glass were replaced with skyscrapers of stone. Modern was gone, and hold overs from art deco stood in their place. I refuse to believe this.

I got my bearings as best I could and found the side street where I parked my car. I heard a melody. It was a Rolling Stones song, as I rounded the corner there was a different car in the parking place with the windows down and the song playing, but there was static over it. I leaned my head in to listen. There was a voice softly singing along.

“Tiiiime is on my side, yes it is.” There was a chuckle. “Time definitely isn’t on your side though is it, Ian?” the voice asked before laughing again.

The crackle of the static was growing louder, so I tuned the radio dial to get it back. Who was that? How did they know my name? Before I could think too long about it I heard a banging on the roof of the car. I got startled and tried to look up, only to bang my head on the roof.

“Sir, you can’t park here. This is a loading zone.” It was a police officer, but not like one I’d ever seen. His uniform was simple. His belt only had a gun and a pair of handcuffs, and no vest or body armor.

“Uhhhh...I.. um...T-this is not my car. But it was parked right here and now it’s gone.” I answered, still dazed from the radio message.

“Okay. What type of car were you driving, sir?” He asked, taking a notepad from his shirt pocket.

“It was a black Impala.” I replied.

“You mean like the one that’s parked right here?” The cop sarcastically asked, tapping the car with his pencil. I backed up a step to look, and the car was a black Impala, but this was a classic, not anything like mine.

“No...no. Mine was brand new. This one is...it’s…” I stammered.

“Looks pretty new to me. What is it? A ‘63?” He asked, pushing his cap back on his head a bit.

“Officer I don’t know what’s…” I couldn’t finish my sentence before he cut me off.

“Okay, pal. That’s enough. How many have you had so far huh?” He asked. “I don’t care how much drinking you do, just as long as you don’t drive afterwards okay? But even so you can’t park here.” He said circling around to me.

“Look goddamnit I’m not drunk!” I yelled. I was trying to keep my composure, but it was slipping. “This isn’t my fucking car!”

“Look, sir. I can see that you’re upset, but there’s no excuse for that kind of barnyard language! Let me see your driver’s license.” he demanded. I fumbled for my wallet, or rather the wallet that was in the pocket of the suit I found myself to be wearing. The cop poked through it and took a card out before circling around to the glovebox on the car. He opened it and took out a piece of paper. “Are you Ian O’Mara?” he asked.

“Yes. That’s my name.” I responded, my gaze sinking to the ground.

“Well your license and registration match up, and let’s see what’s this…” The cop flipped through the wallet some more. “All the info matches on your P.I. license too.” He tossed the wallet back.

“My what?” I asked, flipping through ‘my’ wallet. Sure enough in one of the pockets there was a card that read ‘Private Investigator’s License, Issued by the State of Texas to Ian Conor O’Mara, Issued: 1956 Expires: 1966’. I kept going through the wallet until I found a business card. ‘Third Eye Detective Agency. Investigators in Matters Both Public and Private. We never sleep’. I decided that I had to get out of here before the cop thought I was crazy, but then again maybe I was crazy.

There was no way all of this could be real. I tried to drive back to my apartment, but it wasn’t there. There was only a warehouse with an empty lot behind it where my apartment building would one day stand, but here in what appeared to be the 1960s there was just ‘Emmett Lungbarrow & Sons Tires and Auto Parts’. I drove around the empty acre, and traced the location of my as yet unbuilt living room from the street signs. I stood there for a minute looking around trying to make sense of what had happened to me or where I was. A man at a bus stop threw a newspaper in the trashcan and walked away. I ran to it and fished it out. The Fort Worth Star-Telegram, headline date: November 23rd, 1964. Nineteen-Sixty-Four. I staggered over to the car that was apparently mine, and my legs just collapsed from under me. How could this happen? How did I get here? Was I crazy? Was I on drugs? Did that fall kill me? I had to figure out why and how I got there.

#short story #sfw

18 notes · View notes