When I was in elementary school, I knew I was in severe danger of never getting laid. It doesn’t take a genius to realize that a boy who likes role playing games (I stopped playing Advanced Dungeons and Dragons 2nd Edition in middle school, along with a host of other Palladium modules. Don’t judge!), loves comic books, and wasn’t interested in team sports would be cursed with a -10 to Charisma, and a -90% modifier to my saving throw when hitting on girls (virtual fist-bump to anyone who understands what that means). In high school, I developed a natural Bitchy Resting Face as a natural defense mechanism; it was better to be seen as an emotionless psychopath rather than be targeted for wedgies by pubically accelerated gorillas with stupidly suburban name like Blake, Tanner, or Connor. Do I now pity these dad-bodded fuckers whose ambien-snorting wives get double-teamed by roided-out tennis trainers while their kids fall prey to adderall and ritalin? Yeah, I kinda do. So there’s no need to seek revenge; life has done it all too well for me.
But when I was younger, I needed to get laid. My daily six to ten jerk sessions weren’t cutting it, and they were hell on my socks. (Used to be you could hear me coming form a mile away; when I took a step, my stiffened socks would crinkle loudly in my sneakers—people would think nearby windows had spontaneously exploded). So—true story—I started working out and studying standup comedians, parsing their speech for the rhythms and logic that elicited laughter. Now, I can successfully pass myself off as a jock/Gregarious Guy; I’ve had people assume I know what the hell they’re talking about when they spew basketball or football terminology, even though I don’t even know what the rules are. Yes, I have to watch my mouth to make sure I’m not accidentally steering the conversation into a Marvel Vs. DC who-do-you-think-would-win-in-a-fight, but the point is I can successfully navigate between the “normal” world and Nerd World, which is why I’ve earned the title “Daywalker.”
If you’re not a heathen, you’ll recognize that word as the same one used to describe Blade—he had all the strengths of his vampire brethren, yet none of their weaknesses. Well the same goes for me: the strengths of a jock, none of the weaknesses of a nerd, yet I can pass myself off as either one. That’s why a secret government agency has seen fit to send me back in time to save someone whose name you might recognize…
FIFTY YEARS AGO:
“Ready for a swirly, Gates? Extra chunky, this time!”
“No! Please, I—”
I step out from the shining portal—now in a preteen body—and see four giant jocks looming over a twelve-year old Bill Gates, who’s poised above a toilet. From the fetid stench, I instantly know what the adjectives “extra chunky” imply. Unoriginal AF.
I run up behind the guy holding Bill down and launch my instep into his ballsack. He doubles over in pain, and as the other three register my presence, I throw a body-shot right below the second dude’s bottom right rib, making him double over in agony as his liver releases a bevy of toxins. Solid leg-kick to guy #3’s thigh so I can freeze him in place, then a jab-cross-hook to put him down. Guy #4 takes me to the ground with a sloppy double-leg but I welcome it; I bridge with my hips, pin his elbow and heel with my hands and my legs, then bridge again, rolling him onto his back and mounting his chest. A handful of straights and he’s out cold. (Thank God my rudimentary MMA parlor tricks are the equivalent of atomic death-rays in this uncivilized era!)
“Come on!” I grab Bill by the elbow and we run down the hall.
“Who…who are you?” he stutters, adjusting his glasses.
“I was sent by a higher authority. They determined that someone needs to instill faith in you on this day, at this moment, or you’ll never change the world with your tech and philanthropy.”
“I just want to get laid!” he sobs. “I don’t know anything about—”
“Listen to me!” I stop running and grab him by his shoulders, forcing him to look me in the eye. “These fuckers trying to swirly you will STOP getting laid by the time they’re thirty! YOU, however—before you settle and marry—will be drowning in a proverbial river of vaginal secretions! Keep the faith man—keep the faith!”
We start running again. I hear clamoring voices, and when I look behind me, I see dozens of bullies running toward us. SHIT! We swerve down a few more hallways, but instead of finding an exit, our luck runs out; we hit a dead end.
I turn Bill around, rummage through his backpack, and withdraw his lunch box. I clack it open, unwrap a PB&J sandwich, and hold it out before me like a vampire hunter might brandish a cross.
“Back—BACK I say!” I wave the sandwich from side to side. “These are refined carbs!”
The lead bully cracks his knuckles and gives me a puzzled look. “Carbs? What are those?”
FUCKLES! I forgot that the Bros of Old didn’t spend vast amounts of time masturbating over anabolic windows and keto induction periods! As they rush me, I realize I’m out of options. I open my eReader to Echo, activating its reality distortion powers. Magic flash.
The booming voice of Neil De Grasse Tyson echoes through the hallway, waxing eloquent about string theory akindras, the mystery behind the one-way flow of time, and the region of our Universe we will never see due to the fact that its light will never reach us. As Bill and I close our eyes in rapturous bliss, bullies drop to their knees and begin screaming in long, piteous wails.
“SCIENCE! LOGIC! THE END OF DAYS!”
One of them gouges out his eyes, while another repeatedly bangs his head against the wall, until the bloodied white of his pulped skull gleams above his brow. The rest of them mutilate themselves in various Event Horizon-style ways, and I rocket forward in time, my task completed.
Whew! Good to know that pulling the ol’ science/logic card will destroy a douche-bro’s mind, whether it be in the present or the past! 😀
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