Aaron couldn’t wait to get back to April ’06. He got the bug up his ass after Aunt Wilhelmina squeaked like a rusty carburetor after the Oakland tremor. Aaron barely noticed it except for a pleasant push of the magic fingers up his ass, but his aunt barfed up a squeak from her bedroom that Friday night.
Oh, the things Aaron had to put up with in order to be the sole heir of a spinster aunt’s gazillions!
So he tippy-toed down to the garage late that night after a Cleapatra-Marc Antony J.O. session and wound up the gears of the time machine and turned the dial ever so slightly to the left. He didn’t want to go all the way back to Pompeii … just to San Francisco ’06.
But no, the damned machine didn’t work again. He ended up all the way back in the bed of Henry VIII. There he was, screwing Anne Boleyn. Oh, this was it – the night they conceived Princess Elizabeth, the future Virgin Queen. An earthquake indeed. Bad for Henry and Anne, good for everybody else.
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