Aaron loaded up his shotgun and took aim at the most popular woman in the world.
Mrs. Roosevelt stood in Grosvenor Square with Churchill, King George VI, and Queen Elizabeth. Those buck teeth smiled to the press after the unveiling of F.D.R.’s statue. Aaron sighed. From the fourth floor of the old library he squinted and centered the bullseye on Mrs. Roosvelt’s head. He paused – the former First Lady raised her arm to wave to the crowds. He needed to get a clear shot at her skull.
Two sentries held guard over Aaron. He knew they’d be grinning over this blackmail. Even after Aaron did this, they’d take him back to Istanbul in ’96. There’d probably be no escaping to another era where he could hide – Aaron wanted to visit Utopia 1498, but he doubted he’d ever make it.
Mrs. Roosevelt lowered her arm. Aaron reached for the trigger. Just as he was about to pull, the door burst open. It was Varnum, Barclay, and Jasper. They shot his sentries in the head.
“You’re in the clear, Aardvark. You don’t have to shoot now.”
Tuesday, January 31, 2012
Monday, January 30, 2012
Tell us the truth, no holds barred
“Buddy, you’ve crossed the wrong guy,” the football star said. He took a swipe at the tennis pro and gashed his abdomen wide open. The pro collapsed on top of the star’s ex-wife, already dead from gash after gash.
Aaron looked on from behind. Horrified, he crouched in the bush behind the loggia. These California types, they do everything outside, he thought – even murder. This one he couldn’t believe. The story would be massive. The newspapers, the media, the tabloids, they’d be all over this one. “Former football player and erstwhile television star commits double murder of ex-wife and tennis pro.” And those were just the bare facts.
The football star started covering his tracks. He put the knife in his jacket and took off his glove. Oddly, he got no blood on himself and for the most part avoided stepping in it. He left quickly, and Aaron peaked to look. A black Ford Bronco sped off into the distance with the most famous football player inside. And the knife that’d killed his ex-wife and her friend.
Aaron would have to bear witness against him. But just then, he got transported back to the den of Judas Iscariot. Not in the plan, Judas told him. The football star would go free – but would get caught in his next folly.
Aaron looked on from behind. Horrified, he crouched in the bush behind the loggia. These California types, they do everything outside, he thought – even murder. This one he couldn’t believe. The story would be massive. The newspapers, the media, the tabloids, they’d be all over this one. “Former football player and erstwhile television star commits double murder of ex-wife and tennis pro.” And those were just the bare facts.
The football star started covering his tracks. He put the knife in his jacket and took off his glove. Oddly, he got no blood on himself and for the most part avoided stepping in it. He left quickly, and Aaron peaked to look. A black Ford Bronco sped off into the distance with the most famous football player inside. And the knife that’d killed his ex-wife and her friend.
Aaron would have to bear witness against him. But just then, he got transported back to the den of Judas Iscariot. Not in the plan, Judas told him. The football star would go free – but would get caught in his next folly.
Sunday, January 29, 2012
Ludicrous
Aaron stood alone at the bar in his white shirt and beige slacks. He smoked a Pall Mall and sipped a gin martini. He observed the New York crowd in front of him, the Gibson girls, the downtown lesbians, the uptown matrons, and the pursed-lip intellectuals. He wondered if the machine had malfunctioned this time, because he must be invisible. None of the women noticed him.
He didn’t think he was all that bad looking. Sure, he had no chin but somehow managed to get Jimmy Durante’s nose. And his hair parted a little too far down the side of his head, and it was a little bit too straight for this ‘20s crowd. Hell, he was a little too straight for anyone at this speakeasy. If he’d been in the ‘20s, he probably would’ve stayed away from alcohol, even if he did love gin martinis.
“Ralph, come over here,” the pencil thin-mustachioed bon vivant said to the jolly round suit on the other side. “There’s a party over at Billy Bixler’s later on. Get everyone to come.”
And before Aaron knew, they’d all filed out to the new party, but since no one knew Aaron, they didn’t ask him to go. He wanted to go that party, badly. Just like all the other places and times he’d wanted to be included, but wasn’t. Could the time machine transport him some place more congenial?
He didn’t think he was all that bad looking. Sure, he had no chin but somehow managed to get Jimmy Durante’s nose. And his hair parted a little too far down the side of his head, and it was a little bit too straight for this ‘20s crowd. Hell, he was a little too straight for anyone at this speakeasy. If he’d been in the ‘20s, he probably would’ve stayed away from alcohol, even if he did love gin martinis.
“Ralph, come over here,” the pencil thin-mustachioed bon vivant said to the jolly round suit on the other side. “There’s a party over at Billy Bixler’s later on. Get everyone to come.”
And before Aaron knew, they’d all filed out to the new party, but since no one knew Aaron, they didn’t ask him to go. He wanted to go that party, badly. Just like all the other places and times he’d wanted to be included, but wasn’t. Could the time machine transport him some place more congenial?
Saturday, January 28, 2012
In two hours
“Around the corner, there he is!” the man with the right-handed hook said. “This way, men.”
The men chased Aaron around the corner, but he went up the alley. He came out onto Peachtree Street and ran across. Dagnabbit, not enough traffic to keep them back. Then he ran across Piedmont Avenue down toward Montgomery Avenue. He passed the dump, or at least that’s what America’s most celebrated writer called her place.
“Blech! It’s certainly no Tara.”
And she came outside, looked both ways, and nodded her head. “Safe and clear, John. No reporters. We can go to the market. You too, Bessie.” She walked forward, holding a little black cat. A tall man and a round colored maid followed. Margaret Mitchell was a tiny wren of a woman, so unlike her heroine. But Aaron couldn’t stop more – he saw the men, running in the distance.
Margaret Mitchell noticed, too. “Back inside, John, they saw us.”
He’d have to return with the time machine another time, to get his interview with Scarlett O’Hara’s creator. Perhaps he wouldn’t – she detested public attention, that much he knew. Then the light bulb went off. He’d go into the novel itself. Scarlett O’Hara wouldn’t mind the attention. Not one bit. And he didn’t think his pursuers would find him there.
He ran on toward the park. Piedmont Park might be a dangerous place to hide, but it might work, too.
He had two hours until the machine would come back for him, take him somewhere else. They’d finally found him. How they’d gotten to ‘30s Atlanta, Aaron had no idea. But they were here, they were smart, and they were watching him.
The men chased Aaron around the corner, but he went up the alley. He came out onto Peachtree Street and ran across. Dagnabbit, not enough traffic to keep them back. Then he ran across Piedmont Avenue down toward Montgomery Avenue. He passed the dump, or at least that’s what America’s most celebrated writer called her place.
“Blech! It’s certainly no Tara.”
And she came outside, looked both ways, and nodded her head. “Safe and clear, John. No reporters. We can go to the market. You too, Bessie.” She walked forward, holding a little black cat. A tall man and a round colored maid followed. Margaret Mitchell was a tiny wren of a woman, so unlike her heroine. But Aaron couldn’t stop more – he saw the men, running in the distance.
Margaret Mitchell noticed, too. “Back inside, John, they saw us.”
He’d have to return with the time machine another time, to get his interview with Scarlett O’Hara’s creator. Perhaps he wouldn’t – she detested public attention, that much he knew. Then the light bulb went off. He’d go into the novel itself. Scarlett O’Hara wouldn’t mind the attention. Not one bit. And he didn’t think his pursuers would find him there.
He ran on toward the park. Piedmont Park might be a dangerous place to hide, but it might work, too.
He had two hours until the machine would come back for him, take him somewhere else. They’d finally found him. How they’d gotten to ‘30s Atlanta, Aaron had no idea. But they were here, they were smart, and they were watching him.
Friday, January 27, 2012
Happy birthday!
This time the machine lived up to its expectations, and Aaron got away from the lions in the Roman Forum. Why in the world did he ever wear his confirmation cross when he was being transported to the Roman Empire in the fourth century?
But now he found himself in a place where the cross might help – or hurt. King Henry VIII laughed on his throne. God, he hated that laugh. He’d visited the syphilitic king once before, just when he’d put his cap after Anne Boleyn, and it had sickened him then. Now the despot had his Church of England, his Princess Elizabeth, and Anne Boleyn (Aaron would not refer to the pretender as queen) expecting a second child – a boy, he was certain to say.
But Bishop Fisher and Thomas More quivered in the tower, awaiting their executions. All while the king laughed his way through another birthday party. How long had he been on the throne, thirty years? He’d started out so well and now, look at him – fat, pockmarked, barely able to walk, but laughing like a hyena. But where was the much-vaunted Anne? Not here at the birthday party. And the king seemed to be paying a lot of attention to Lady Jane Seymour …
Aaron decided to make a quick getaway, but not before making his mark. Socrates had given him some hemlock on a recent visit to Ancient Greece, so Aaron poured a little of it in the king’s chalice. But he didn’t drink it – he gave it to the court jester. And the court jester died. Aaron would have that on his head. Off to the next adventure.
But now he found himself in a place where the cross might help – or hurt. King Henry VIII laughed on his throne. God, he hated that laugh. He’d visited the syphilitic king once before, just when he’d put his cap after Anne Boleyn, and it had sickened him then. Now the despot had his Church of England, his Princess Elizabeth, and Anne Boleyn (Aaron would not refer to the pretender as queen) expecting a second child – a boy, he was certain to say.
But Bishop Fisher and Thomas More quivered in the tower, awaiting their executions. All while the king laughed his way through another birthday party. How long had he been on the throne, thirty years? He’d started out so well and now, look at him – fat, pockmarked, barely able to walk, but laughing like a hyena. But where was the much-vaunted Anne? Not here at the birthday party. And the king seemed to be paying a lot of attention to Lady Jane Seymour …
Aaron decided to make a quick getaway, but not before making his mark. Socrates had given him some hemlock on a recent visit to Ancient Greece, so Aaron poured a little of it in the king’s chalice. But he didn’t drink it – he gave it to the court jester. And the court jester died. Aaron would have that on his head. Off to the next adventure.
Thursday, January 26, 2012
In the back
Where in the name of Theda Bara did Aaron land this time? The room was black and smelled of bad crotch, fizzy beer, sewer rats, and cigarette butts. Men filled the room like a sardine can. They groped at his chest and grazed his hips. They talked in a hilly English that put him somewhere between Punxsutawny and Dubuque. Dear God, Aaron hoped he didn’t land in Punxsutawny to see the groundhog not see his shadow for the tenth year running.
But the men were dressed in heavy jackets and jeans, at least those whose pants weren’t down around their ankles. Aaron could see better now that his pupils dilated. They all had beards. Was it a gay Paul Bunyan reunion? He didn’t mind traveling to a cliché gay locale back in the ‘70s. How else to explain the pocketed red scarves? After all, Aaron enjoyed men and women in the same frisky way. But he did mind the cheap beer. He’d rather sit at 21 sipping martinis with Noel Coward.
A short wiry type named Bruce came over and offered him a Rolling Rock, said he liked Aaron’s nose. Who likes people’s noses? And when he introduced himself, Bruce burst out laughing – “Aardvark, yeah right buddy. Total aardvark nose there. Hey fellas, listen to this guy, he’s got an aardvark nose.”
Aaron wanted to punch out Bruce’s face but held back. Why’d his family have to come from Slovenia and give him that name? For years he’d considered changing his name to Aaron Avalon, but it didn’t flow off the tongue like Aaron Aardvark. But no, he just laughed along with this Midwestern fool. He’d probably end up in an HIV ward ten years later.
Then it hit Aaron, that’s why they transported him here. Part of the deal, once a month they choose where he’d land. He came here to warn them. So he picked up Bruce and went back to his place behind the mill and enjoyed the romp, even if the mattress lay on the floor between kitty litter and a shotgun collection. But when Aaron warned Bruce about what was coming, he said he was out of his mind, get the hell out of here, don’t come back.
Where were Mr. Coward and his 21 martini?
But the men were dressed in heavy jackets and jeans, at least those whose pants weren’t down around their ankles. Aaron could see better now that his pupils dilated. They all had beards. Was it a gay Paul Bunyan reunion? He didn’t mind traveling to a cliché gay locale back in the ‘70s. How else to explain the pocketed red scarves? After all, Aaron enjoyed men and women in the same frisky way. But he did mind the cheap beer. He’d rather sit at 21 sipping martinis with Noel Coward.
A short wiry type named Bruce came over and offered him a Rolling Rock, said he liked Aaron’s nose. Who likes people’s noses? And when he introduced himself, Bruce burst out laughing – “Aardvark, yeah right buddy. Total aardvark nose there. Hey fellas, listen to this guy, he’s got an aardvark nose.”
Aaron wanted to punch out Bruce’s face but held back. Why’d his family have to come from Slovenia and give him that name? For years he’d considered changing his name to Aaron Avalon, but it didn’t flow off the tongue like Aaron Aardvark. But no, he just laughed along with this Midwestern fool. He’d probably end up in an HIV ward ten years later.
Then it hit Aaron, that’s why they transported him here. Part of the deal, once a month they choose where he’d land. He came here to warn them. So he picked up Bruce and went back to his place behind the mill and enjoyed the romp, even if the mattress lay on the floor between kitty litter and a shotgun collection. But when Aaron warned Bruce about what was coming, he said he was out of his mind, get the hell out of here, don’t come back.
Where were Mr. Coward and his 21 martini?
Wednesday, January 25, 2012
The surgeon
Aaron wanted to be in Dallas that day, so he jimmied the machine to transport him back to the ’61 Lincoln Continental. But he missed – and found himself in Parkland Hospital. Damn. He was always just missing his target, like that time he landed in the Dead Sea instead of witnessing the resurrection. And the time he got hit in the eye by Babe Ruth’s record home run.
Gleaming white and hot silver in the operating room, no one was there. Then the doors burst open and a gurneyed patient was wheeled in – there he was, Kennedy. Or what remained of him. His head was a bloody unrecognizable pulp of brain matter. Jackie slithered across the floor, sideways, to one side of the room. She rested her back against the wall. All the black-suited bureaucrats circled the room, the doctors rushed in, the surgeon attended the president, suturing, pumping blood into the heart. Chaos, control. No control.
No one noticed Aaron, who’d turned off the visibility setting on the machine that time. He didn’t want history to record him for posterity. Too dangerous. They’d been after him so long, they could find him if he showed up in the pictures. He went over and stood by Jackie. The chaos of the moment, the surgeon’s futile efforts to revive the president, all wound down to this woman with the mucus and blood on her face, her hair, and her suit.
And then it stopped – the chaos, and the priest came into the room. Everyone filed out but Jackie and the priest. They walked over to the president and muttered silent prayers for his soul. Aaron disappeared back to the void where he went when he could no longer remain in place, but before he found his next adventure.
Gleaming white and hot silver in the operating room, no one was there. Then the doors burst open and a gurneyed patient was wheeled in – there he was, Kennedy. Or what remained of him. His head was a bloody unrecognizable pulp of brain matter. Jackie slithered across the floor, sideways, to one side of the room. She rested her back against the wall. All the black-suited bureaucrats circled the room, the doctors rushed in, the surgeon attended the president, suturing, pumping blood into the heart. Chaos, control. No control.
No one noticed Aaron, who’d turned off the visibility setting on the machine that time. He didn’t want history to record him for posterity. Too dangerous. They’d been after him so long, they could find him if he showed up in the pictures. He went over and stood by Jackie. The chaos of the moment, the surgeon’s futile efforts to revive the president, all wound down to this woman with the mucus and blood on her face, her hair, and her suit.
And then it stopped – the chaos, and the priest came into the room. Everyone filed out but Jackie and the priest. They walked over to the president and muttered silent prayers for his soul. Aaron disappeared back to the void where he went when he could no longer remain in place, but before he found his next adventure.
Tuesday, January 24, 2012
What you heard
Aaron rowed the boat across the ithsmus. He’d caught wind of a feast planned this evening at the palace in Athens, and if he was going to meet Sultan Karpathy at the port, he’d better hurry. But the Turks didn’t make it easy, fighting their little war with each other like a Muslim version of the Spanish armada.
He had a pretty good idea of when he’d landed this time, about three hundred years before his last stop in the councils of the de Medicis. Most times he conjured up the right place, but he backfired occasionally just as he’d done this time. He’d wanted to dine with the Pilgrims in Plymouth for turkey dinner – but instead, he’d landed in a Turkish prison bath in Constantinople. Byzantium didn’t please Aaron Aardvark, too grimy.
But he certainly got more nookie in those three hours in the prison bath than he would’ve gotten with the Pilgrims. The men and the women just crawled all over him (and under him and in him). “Hey you,” he said to the concubine on the other end of the boat, the Amazon beauty he’d grabbed before heading to the port, “what’s your name?” But she didn’t speak English or Hebrew (Aaron’s only other language), so she just grunted and spread her legs open for him.
He’d plug the horny concubine here in the boat and then be on his own when he landed in Greece. She could take the boat back to Constantinople. He traveled fastest alone, and he needed to hurry to make it to the sultan’s feast by evening.
He had a pretty good idea of when he’d landed this time, about three hundred years before his last stop in the councils of the de Medicis. Most times he conjured up the right place, but he backfired occasionally just as he’d done this time. He’d wanted to dine with the Pilgrims in Plymouth for turkey dinner – but instead, he’d landed in a Turkish prison bath in Constantinople. Byzantium didn’t please Aaron Aardvark, too grimy.
But he certainly got more nookie in those three hours in the prison bath than he would’ve gotten with the Pilgrims. The men and the women just crawled all over him (and under him and in him). “Hey you,” he said to the concubine on the other end of the boat, the Amazon beauty he’d grabbed before heading to the port, “what’s your name?” But she didn’t speak English or Hebrew (Aaron’s only other language), so she just grunted and spread her legs open for him.
He’d plug the horny concubine here in the boat and then be on his own when he landed in Greece. She could take the boat back to Constantinople. He traveled fastest alone, and he needed to hurry to make it to the sultan’s feast by evening.
Sunday, January 22, 2012
Allow me to introduce myself
My name is Aaron Aardvark. Or at least that's what I call myself these days. My real name is something toward the end of the alphabet. But I decided that when I come back in my next life, I want to be first in line. No one knows that about me. I want to sit at the head of my elementary school class, I want to be called on first to give that pesky answer to the algebra question, and I want to be the first to get the guys (if I come back oriented to men) or girls (if I come back oriented to women). I'm on an unhistoric adventure across the world. I'll visit priests, princes, and presidents throughout world history and I'll take them to task for their sins and their debaucheries. Because I want to escape to the past that history entails -- no one knows that about me, either -- and envelop me in the security of what is known. So get ready, world, here comes Aaron Aardvark.
And that's something else no one knows. I'm going to write an adventure novel about a naive, self-centered, egotistical, narcissistic, sado-masochistic misanthrope named Aaron Aardvark. And he gets his in the long run.
And that's something else no one knows. I'm going to write an adventure novel about a naive, self-centered, egotistical, narcissistic, sado-masochistic misanthrope named Aaron Aardvark. And he gets his in the long run.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)