The Endless War That Never Ends Read online

  Copyright

  The Endless War That Never Ends

  Copyright ©2019 by Christopher Brimmage

  ISBN-13: 978-0-578-43255-7 (Karaoke Octopus Press)

  ISBN-10: 0-578-43255-2

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced without written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, alternate universes, regulatory agencies, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously (well, unless you’re reading this on another reality in the Multiverse where everything that happens is true, in which case, it’s not a work of fiction. But that’s unlikely. Unless you live on a reality where it is likely, in which case, I retract my assertion of unlikelihood).

  Cover design by Damonza.com

  For Augustus,

  The best boy in the whole Multiverse.

  Power-Bomb Booooooooy!

  And for Link & Margot,

  Second children—like second books—deserve all the attention they can get. I love you both.

  Table of Contents

  FOREWORD

  BOOK ONE

  CHAPTER 1: THE INVOCATION OF MUSE ELECTRONICS

  CHAPTER 2: TEN LONG YEARS LATER…

  CHAPTER 3: THE PRE-TEEN, THE MYTH, THE LEGEND

  CHAPTER 4: DÉJÀ VU IN BINARY

  CHAPTER 5: STOP HITTING YOURSELF

  CHAPTER 6: THE BEGINNING OF THE ENDLESS

  CHAPTER 7: YOU SPIN ME RIGHT ROUND, ROBOT, RIGHT ROUND

  CHAPTER 8: A NEW, PINK PLAN

  CHAPTER 9: A B.I.T. OF A TRANSITION

  CHAPTER 10: AND SO IT BEGINS. AGAIN.

  CHAPTER 11: A PINK INVASION

  CHAPTER 12: AN UNSURPRISING TWIST

  CHAPTER 13: WHEN A ‘BOT LOVES A DINO, CAN’T KEEP HIS ONES AND ZEROES ON NOTHIN’ ELSE

  CHAPTER 14: BATTLING ON THE SHIPS

  CHAPTER 15: GO! GO! POWER DRILLBOT!

  CHAPTER 16: A BRIDGE TOO FAR

  CHAPTER 17: A PUTRID SKIRMISH

  CHAPTER 18: A HAIL MARY ON ANY REALITY REEKS JUST AS DESPERATE

  CHAPTER 19: A TIMELY RAID

  CHAPTER 20: THROUGH THE CAVE AND INTO THE TOWER

  CHAPTER 21: FATHER TIME JUST WANTS FRIENDS

  CHAPTER 22: TIME FOR GOODBYES

  CHAPTER 23: BOMBS AWAY

  CHAPTER 24: DEUS EX MACHINAS DOING DEUS EX MACHINA THINGS

  BOOK TWO

  CHAPTER 1: ANOTHER A-MUSE-ING INVOCATION

  CHAPTER 2: IMPROVISATION, THY NAME IS REGULAR-GINNY

  CHAPTER 3: DRILLBOT, PORTRAIT OF A ROBOT ALL ALONE

  CHAPTER 4: FLIP THE BOARD

  CHAPTER 5: THE RAGE OF DRILLBOT

  CHAPTER 6: DEATH’S NOT ALWAYS FAIR

  CHAPTER 7: A MANGLED ESCAPE

  CHAPTER 8: A ROBOTIC VISION

  CHAPTER 9: A LONG TUMBLE

  CHAPTER 10: DRILLBOT GOES UNDERGROUND

  CHAPTER 11: RESURRECTION VIA ROBOT

  CHAPTER 12: SOMETIMES IT TAKES A GOURD TO SLASH A GORDIAN KNOT

  CHAPTER 13: A HELL OF A CHANGE

  CHAPTER 14: HOME IS WHERE THE HELL IS

  CHAPTER 15: INTO THE INFERNO

  CHAPTER 16: AFTERLIFE IS MUCH BETTER DOWN WHERE IT’S WETTER

  CHAPTER 17: RESURRECTIONS. AND RESURRECTIONS. AND RESURRECTIONS. AND RESURRECTIONS…

  CHAPTER 18: FARTHER INTO THE PIT

  CHAPTER 19: VISITING PLACES FROM THE PAST

  CHAPTER 20: THAW AND ORDER

  CHAPTER 21: BACK TO THE BEGINNING

  CHAPTER 22: A DEVIL OF AN EMERGENCE

  CHAPTER 23: SHOWDOWN

  CHAPTER 24: ALWAYS LATE

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  FOREWORD

  This book is nothing but propaganda, and in choosing to publish it, the author is choosing to spread dangerous lies throughout the Multiverse. I warned him about the perils of publishing this piece, but he chose to press forth with it, anyway.

  The author claims this book is not propaganda at all, but rather a novel inspired by a pair of epic poems written by a guy named Homer or Homrey or Hompson or something equally ridiculous from the author’s native universe. I cannot confirm which is correct, because I stopped listening to the author after the first few seconds of his incessant rambling. And besides, the premises of these epics—like the author himself—sound too idiotic to be inspirational: the end of a decade-long war? A decade-long journey home? What drivel!

  Real inspiration should come from military chronicles in which the generals crush their enemies. For example, if you had Bureau of Interdimensional Travel Classified Access Level Two, you could read about the time I intervened in the Trivintinalian Civil War on Earth 65,872,222. That would truly inspire you.

  Nevertheless, I have begun the paperwork to transport the author from his home on Earth 6,076 to the penal colony on Earth 29,001,127. This paperwork can sometimes take years to process, especially when the accused party is not directly responsible for interdimensional hijinks, but is instead illegally chronicling them.

  Thus, be sure to enjoy this author’s presence while you can, for you shall not see him again once the paperwork clears.

  Sincerely,

  Bureau of Interdimensional Travel Agent 27142

  Chapter 1

  THE INVOCATION OF MUSE ELECTRONICS

  The billboard for Muse Electronics loomed above Mr. Reynolds like a distasteful obelisk dedicated to the sort of modern god made to be thrown away and replaced every few months. The billboard declared to the world in bold orange letters, “SING TO ME OF SURROUND SOUND AND AN AMAZING HOME THEATER, O MUSE ELECTRONICS! SALE EVERY THURSDAY! 20% OFF!”

  Mr. Reynolds popped the collar on his trench coat and pressed down on the brim of his ragged red and white trucker hat until it nearly rested upon his nose. Any wary onlooker would have assumed him to be merely the creepiest of homeless flashers.

  Mr. Reynolds could see Art’s front door was missing, the only sign that this particular apartment was different from any of the others in this square-mile of rundown apartment buildings. Cars on the nearby highway zoomed past, their motors sounding like demonic waves on a barren black sea. Mr. Reynolds pulled out his phone and dialed Art’s number, as he had countless times since the deadbeat left work weeks ago and neglected to return.

  The phone rang a couple times, and then Art’s voice called, “Hello?” A pause for two or three seconds. “Hello? Speak up. I can’t hear you.”

  Mr. Reynolds made no effort to respond.

  “Psych!” called out Art’s voice into Mr. Reynolds’ ear. “This is my voicemail. You know what to do. This is Art, by the way, so if you don’t want to talk to me, maybe just hang up now.”

  Mr. Reynolds grimaced. If I had a nickel for every time I’ve fallen for that damned thing, thought the grizzled Department of Motor Vehicles regional branch manager as he tugged on his mustache. He did not finish the thought, the implication obviously being that he would have a lot of money. If only he had said the words aloud, he might have caught the attention of the wish-granting fairy that he mistook for a tiny, flittering yellow butterfly, which was experiencing a layover here on Earth 6,076 during its journey fluttering between realities. He may have found himself $1.20 richer, which is still a lot of money depending on your point of view.

  At the beep, Mr. Reynolds whisper-shouted, “Art! This is Mr. Reynolds. I need you to call me back. This is of dire importance! I know you’re just going to delete this message without listening to it because you are a giant idiot, but I’ll go ahead and try to warn you, anyway: go to the store, buy a n
ew door to cover the gaping security risk in the front of your place, close the damned thing, lock it, and then do not answer it. For anyone.”

  He hung up. He called a second time, and then sighed when he heard the line beep in answer and then hang up. Mr. Reynolds shrugged and crept across the street, bobbing up and down as he limped, old injuries smarting and sending small shocks of pain through his joints. He glanced down at his scarred hands with their nine withered fingers—his left shortened by a pinky—and thought about how much easier his life would be if his orders allowed him to simply enter Art’s apartment and force the sluggard to listen to him. When he reached the bushes near Art’s front window, he ducked beneath them and sat for a moment to catch his breath. Then he slowly raised his head and peeped through the window, only to witness a masterpiece of slovenly degradation.

  Art wore only a jagged piece of onyx hanging by a thin gold chain around his neck and a pair of boxers saturated with so much grease that they were all but see through. His skin was pallid and yellowed, but it also glistened with its own distinct Art-grease, giving him the appearance of a frumpy, suckling pig baking in its own juices. Art sat staring into the television while sprawled ungraciously on the couch, the lone island of quasi-cleanliness amongst the sea of filth. A continent of pizza boxes rose in a disorganized stack from the back corner of the room, and as Mr. Reynolds began hearing the howls of wild animals emerge from amongst them, he ducked his head back down so as not to attract their notice. He sat slump-shouldered in the soil beneath the green bushes. He need not dig too hard into his memory to understand what was about to happen, but that did not prevent him from wishing it would happen differently.

  Mr. Reynolds leaned his back against the rough brick and waited. Finally, after nearly five minutes of tedious trepidation, it happened: Mr. Reynolds experienced what felt like a vacuum sucking out his ear canals, and then a flash of lightning erupted into existence before him, its jagged end crashing to a halt on the sidewalk in front of the entrance to Art’s ground floor apartment.

  When the lightning dispersed, two figures stood clad in what appeared to be British police officer uniforms, except these uniforms had badges that identified the wearers as Bureau of Interdimensional Travel agents and holsters that contained an array of weaponry that would have multiplied the destructive power of a British police officer by an exponent of at least fifty. One officer was male and looked identical to Art, while the other was female and looked identical to Art’s girlfriend, Ginny. Atop their heads, they each wore a snug, bobby-style hat that featured a checkered ring around the crown. A gigantic, brown eagle perched on each of their shoulders, and a pair of foot-long antennae dangled from the forehead of each eagle. Mr. Reynolds’ stomach turned. He squeezed a clod of wet soil between his fingers, trying in vain to concentrate on anything other than the panic cresting through his bowels.

  Officer-Art marched with purpose toward Art’s front entrance. Officer-Ginny followed on his heels. Neither looked left nor right, their gazes fixed squarely on the open threshold in front of them. Officer-Art jabbed a finger at the doorbell so violently that Mr. Reynolds was surprised it did not crack in half. From his perch, Mr. Reynolds could both hear the foghorn call of the doorbell, which filled him with nostalgia, and see the meticulously clean finger of the officer, which flushed the nostalgia from his heart and replaced it with hatred and anxiety.

  Mr. Reynolds listened as Normal-Art’s footsteps approached the door. “Damn,” Normal-Art’s voice drifted from within the apartment. Then, “DAMN!”

  The officers ignored the cursing. “Bureau of Interdimensional Travel Agents 27142 and 29333 at your service. You mind if we come inside?”

  Sweat beaded on Mr. Reynolds’ forehead. Though he had been assured his perch was safe and protected by technology that made the square-meter invisible to B.I.T. sensors, Mr. Reynolds could not prevent himself from breathing in short, nervous gasps. Moments later, when he heard Normal-Art scream, Mr. Reynolds dug his fingers into his palms to prevent himself from screaming in response. He noted with bleakness the lack of pinky on his left hand to dig into his palm.

  Moments later, Officer-Art dragged Normal-Art from the apartment by his arm. Officer-Ginny followed on their heels. “Wait!” screamed Normal-Art. “I know this is going to sound like the stupidest thing you have ever heard, but on our…our caper, we rescued a pair of stuffed bears that claimed they were from the center of the Multiverse. The pink one made off with my girlfriend. According to the blue one, the pink bear is going to destroy every reality in existence. The blue claims he is going to heal them all. You might want to deal with them instead of wasting your time on me. I don’t mean anybody any harm. Or good, either. I just want to relax.”

  Mr. Reynolds flinched as Officer-Ginny slapped Normal-Art across the face. “Why didn’t you mention this earlier?”

  Mr. Reynolds flinched once more as Officer-Art also slapped Normal-Art across the face. “Did you not think there was a reason those bears were stuck on that backwater reality? You’ve just unwittingly unleashed the greatest threat the Multiverse has ever known.”

  Normal-Art muttered something, but Mr. Reynolds could not hear it.

  “You’re coming with us to help us stop those beasts, whether you like it or not,” declared Officer-Art, squeezing tightly on Normal-Art’s arm.

  “And then it’s off to a prison dimension with you,” added Officer-Ginny. Dread filled Mr. Reynolds’ heart.

  Normal-Art squealed. “I just want to sit on my couch and watch television. Why won’t anybody just let me relax?”

  Mr. Reynolds watched Officer-Art’s eagle stand tall and flap its wings. As it screeched, lightning flashed from its antennae, enveloping the trio. Mr. Reynolds heard Normal-Art curse his luck as he disappeared.

  Mr. Reynolds crawled out from under the bushes and stood. He stroked his bushy mustache out of habit, and then he shuddered. He grabbed the bottom right corner of the mustache and yanked. The adhesive on the back of the false mustache seemed to take a few layers of skin with it as it detached. Mr. Reynolds squealed a curse.

  He glanced around to make sure the area was deserted, and then turned the fake mustache over in his hand so that the back of it was facing up. A little red button lay in its middle, and he tapped the button in the pattern he had been taught.

  Fractions of a second later, a hologram of a wizened, bearded face appeared floating above the mustache. “Agent Arthur, what have you to report?”

  “It’s just Art,” said Mr. Reynolds—a name which is obviously the man’s pseudonym, and if you are just now putting the pieces together and realizing that this is Art from the future, dear reader, then maybe you should give up on this book before it gets more complicated.

  The bearded face made no reply to Older-Art’s correction, so Older-Art began his report, “My past-self departed with B.I.T. Officers 27142 and 29333 mere seconds ago, as we knew he would.”

  The face nodded in approval. “This is good. The timestream is as it should be. Well done, Agent Arthur.”

  “It’s just Art,” corrected Older-Art for a second time. Knowing it would garner no response, he continued, “Look, we obviously knew this was destined to happen and that he was going to go with them. I don’t understand why you couldn’t have simply dropped me off twenty years in the future so that I can complete my mission and be done with all this damnable business.”

  The face sighed. “As I explain to you every single time we speak, it’s because you needed to be in your current position as your younger-self’s boss in order to create a chain of events that caused your younger-self to abandon his status quo and join your mischief-god-self on the quest to retrieve the cosmic bears. Otherwise, the bear scenario would never have played out as it was destined to, and all hope for all futures would be lost. Though Father Time predestined the events to play out as they did, you needed to be there to act as Father Time’s prodding finger.”

  Older-Art sighed. “Fine, whatever. I get it, I just hat
e it. But now past-me won’t be back for twenty years. So pick me up, shift me to the future, and drop me off at his/my predestined return time.”

  Silence answered Older-Art on the other end.

  “Hey! C’mon! Come get me!”

  More silence.

  “Please! I’m sorry for refusing to urinate in the restroom! I’ll never use your shoes again! I’m sorry for placing sharp objects in your chair and for spitting in your coffee when you weren’t looking! Please just shift me forward in time so I can get this damned mission over with and finally be left alone!”

  The face stared at him with mouth agape. “I didn’t know about the coffee thing,” it replied.

  Older-Art planted his face squarely in his free palm and stifled a despairing sob.

  The face ignored the gesture. “Sorry, Agent Arthur, but you chose to continue your mischief despite stern warnings against such behavior. Now you must complete your mission before you can be trusted to return to the ship.”

  The face continued droning on, but Older-Art no longer listened. He did not even correct the face when it called him the wrong name. Instead, he cursed and pressed the red button on the back of his fake mustache. The face disappeared, and Older-Art sighed in satisfaction at this tiny bit of power he was able to exert over his superior.

  Older-Art reapplied the fake mustache and walked back toward the Department of Motor Vehicles. Part of his orders were to maintain his position at this job, which he half-suspected was his superior’s subtle way of torturing him. But if he ever wanted to be free, he knew he had to obey his orders this time. And if he were being completely honest, waiting in the relative safety of the D.M.V. seemed much easier than his adventures with God-Art and Officers Art and Ginny had ever been, so he could not complain too much. He sighed.

  When he arrived back inside the D.M.V., he called a random employee into his office to yell at her for underperformance. When he was finished, he felt mildly better. He dismissed her. Then he cursed and began the long wait for his younger-self to return.