Dale Mettam Read online

  THE PUB

  AT THE

  CENTER

  OF THE

  UNIVERSE

  By Dale Mettam

  The Pub at the Center of the Universe

  Copyright 2006

  Dale Mettam

  All Rights reserved

  First Printing February 2007

  Second Printing 2012

  ISBN 978-0-9773676-5-8

  Written By Dale Mettam

  Published by Dailey Swan Publishing, Inc.

  No part of this book may be copied

  or duplicated except with written prior

  permission of the publisher. Small

  Excerpts may be taken for review

  purposes with proper credits given.

  Dailey Swan Publishing Company, Inc.

  Bellevue, Wa. 98004

  www.Daileyswanpublishing.com

  Printed in the United States of America

  To Lisa, Mom, and Dad.

  They all saw the potential.

  Prologue

  “Where does a story begin?” asked the Sensei.

  The class stared back expressionless.

  “Come now,” the Sensei encouraged. “Is that such a difficult question? If you have trouble with this, then you might want to consider popping back to your dormitory, packing up and leaving.”

  Nervous whispers passed through the class of initiates. This was their first class and all were anxious to impress their Sensei, but such a simple question, they were sure, must be a trick question.

  The Sensei smiled at them. “Remember, there is no such thing as a wrong answer. Only an answer that has yet to find the right question.”

  Hesitantly, one of the initiates raised a shaky hand. He had been called Added Ad before coming to the Temple of Twil; now he was merely a nameless initiate. All initiates gave up their name when they joined the Twil. They also relinquished any association with their homes and even their species.

  They were all the same here. They now existed in pure Potential and ties to their past would simply drag them back into the other four dimensions of the Universe. Here in the Temple of Twil, they were beyond that. Here they became Potential.

  “Yes, initiate?” The Sensei looked at the raised hand. The initiate’s voice trembled, “A story begins at the beginning, Sensei.”

  “An excellent answer, initiate.” The Sensei beamed. “Does anyone disagree?”

  The initiates, eager to please, nodded enthusiastically.

  “Then answer my next question,” the Sensei pointed at the initiate that was once called Added Ad. “Where is the beginning?”

  The initiate began to sweat. Having answered one question, he had hoped the sensei would now look to someone else, but the grinning eyes of the sensei, as well as the other initiates, were focused solely on him. It must be a trick question. If where a story begins was the beginning, then where else would that be than...

  “The start, Sensei?” The initiate answered.

  The Sensei grinned even wider. “Good answer,” he said. “Have you been doing some reading before you started this class?”

  The initiate blushed and noticed scornful looks from several fellow classmates, jealous they had not taken the chance to answer and now bask in the praise of their master.

  “And where exactly is that start?”

  The feeling of satisfied pride disappeared from the initiate, who also noticed that the looks of jealousy he had been attracting moments earlier were replaced with ones of relief that they had not risen to answer the initial question.

  The silence seemed oppressive as the initiate searched for an answer. If this was a trick question, there must be some simple answer. Yet there was the possibility, or rather, the Potential, that this was not as simple a problem as it appeared. Perhaps the studying he had done before arriving at the Temple had not been nearly good enough.

  “Perhaps it would help to give you all an example,” said the Sensei.

  The initiates breathed a synchronous sigh of relief. While the Sensei might not be giving them an answer, they would have at least some extra time to try to puzzle one out.

  “Now, imagine that a great hero sets forth on a quest to slay a monster. After searching out the beast and engaging in a terrible battle, the hero is victorious. Where did that story begin?”

  Several hands shot into the air. Now that the initiates had an example, it was clear what the answer was. The Sensei held up a hand and smiled kindly.

  “Wait,” the sensei said. “This is a multiple choice question.”

  The initiates slowly lowered their hands and waited, eager now, feeling they had a real chance of solving the puzzle.

  “Does the story begin when the hero takes up a weapon? Does the story begin when the monster slays its first victim? Does it begin when the beast is born or when the hero is born? Does the story begin when the father of the hero meets the hero’s mother, or when the hero’s grandfather survives a terrible accident that would have surely killed him were he not so lucky? Does the story begin when the ancestors of the monster are betrayed by the ancestors of the hero, driving a wedge of hatred between the two races? Or, and this is the one that always blows the minds of initiates,” he said with a grin, “does the hero’s story begin when his great granddaughter leads an outnumbered army to victory over an enemy of terrible power? Does the past dictate the future, or does the future write the past?”

  The class sat quietly.

  “Remember, you have lived your lives thus far confined to the limitations of the four dimensions of the universe. Here we live in the fifth dimension. Here all exists in Potential, the fifth dimension.”

  The Sensei pointed at the initiate who had been Added Ad. “I commend you on your answers, initiate. Potentially, you could have been correct. You lived, for a few moments, immersed in Potential. From the rest of you, I expect an essay on why the wrong answer from your colleague was the right thing to respond with.”

  The initiates were now trying to work out how a story could start several generations after it had quite obviously begun. A small group leaned together and quietly deliberated on this seemingly impossible conundrum. Finally, after much nudging and prompting, the bravest raised a hand and asked. The Sensei gave them a sly smile.

  “Because,” he answered.

  Chapter One

  Had he been asked, Kirk Deighton would have said his story began as he rubbed his aching head while watching the strangest helicopter he had ever seen land in the field where his car was rather crudely parked. Of course, he would have been wrong. But as a human, he had no idea there even was a fifth dimension, let alone what it was.

  Now though, he wondered why exactly he was sitting in his car, in a field, getting wetter by the second as rain drenched him through the shattered windshield. Then it all came back to him.

  He should have known things were going to be bad today when he stepped out of his front door and fell through a ridiculously large pile of milk bottles being stacked on his doorstep.

  “Mornin’, sir,” said an overly cheerful milkman. Kirk pulled himself from the pile of bottles strewn across the path, several now rolling into the street.

  “Why are you leaving all this milk here?”

  “Just following the order sheet, sir.” The milkman beamed, merrily stacking the bottles again.

  “S’my first day, and the boss says to me, ‘Herbie,’ he says. ‘Herbie, you make sure everyone gets their milk and gets it
before they leave for work.’

  And I says, ‘Right-o, boss!’...” “But I don’t have my milk delivered. I didn’t even know people still delivered milk.”

  Herbie the milkman nodded sagely, clearly paying no attention. “That’s alright, sir. Don’t you worry about it. I have the order sheet, it says you do, and that’s all that matters.”

  “But I don’t have my milk delivered. I have no idea why you’re here, why you’re leaving so much milk, or why I’m even wasting time talking to you!”

  Herbie smiled. It was the indulgent smile of someone talking to an idiot. “Must be my winning personality, sir. Now, where would you like me to put the yogurts? I only ask because twenty-six cases of banana yogurt needs to be put somewhere cool, otherwise it’ll just go bad.”

  “What?”

  Twenty minutes later, after finally convincing Herbie that there had obviously been a mistake and he was actually lactose intolerant, Kirk set off for work. He was going to be late.

  His manager said nothing when Kirk arrived, but fixed his gaze alternately on the office clock and Kirk who was hastily changing into his uniform. He wasn’t entirely sure how he had ended up being a store security guard. It had never been a career ambition to wander around the women’s section of a department store in a ridiculously pompous uniform, watching for the occasional school kid trying to stuff a bra, seven sizes too big, under her sweater.

  A recent boom in store thefts added some pressure to Kirk’s daily routine, though not that much. If it weren’t for being behind in his rent payments, he probably would have quit months ago.

  Then the second bad thing happened that day. As Kirk was making his way through the women’s underwear section, trying his best not to look too closely or often at the skimpy frilly items that seemed far too small for the hangers displaying them, he bumped into Mr. Wells.

  “Just the man.” Mr. Wells smiled, and for some reason made Kirk suddenly think of small curd cottage cheese. “The name’s Wells. I’m here from the Head Office.” The little man waved a wallet containing some identification, but it whizzed past Kirk’s eyes too fast for him to see.

  “I have these chits all filled out and ready for your signature, then I can take the cash register trays for independent auditing.”

  “I don’t know about that,” Kirk said. “You probably need to see Mr. Budger, the store manager.

  “Already done and he’s assured me that you’re the man to assist me,” Mr. Wells said, steering Kirk towards the cluster of cash registers.

  “Mr. Budger suggested I help you?”

  “Spoke very highly of you.” With a flourish, he pulled a set of car keys from his pocket and waved them in front of Kirk. “Even loaned me his car so as to get this process over and done with as quickly as possible,” Mr. Wells said.

  If that was the case, Kirk thought, he had better get a move on. Perhaps this was a chance to make up for being late this morning.

  As Mr. Budger’s car rolled out of the staff parking lot, an immense feeling of dread swept over Kirk. This was in no small part due to Mr. Budger running after his car demanding, between asthmatic wheezes, that the man stealing it should come back.

  Five hours later, after extensive and repeated questioning by the police, Kirk went to collect his things from his locker. Everyone was studiously avoiding eye contact, and a slim letter taped to his locker door informed him that he was no longer an employee and he should leave his keys, badge and company-issued tie as he departed.

  As he walked to his car, he realized his terrible day was not finished yet. His rear driver-side wheel had a flat tire. He threw his bag into the back seat and set about changing the wheel.

  Kirk had just removed the flat tire when he became aware of someone watching him. He quickly turned, hoping deep down that Mr. Wells had returned and the whole incident was just a mix-up rather than theft.

  Sitting on a wall was an old man, dressed in flowing, faded orange robes, a large grin spread across his wizened face. Kirk wiped a dirty hand across his sweating brow and glared at the old man.

  “Can I help you?”

  The old man hopped down and ambled towards him. “It is I who can help you, I think, “ the old man said, smiling. “In exchange for a ride in your fine automobile, would you let me complete the task of replacing this wheel?”

  Kirk eyed the old man suspiciously. “What if I’m not going in a direction you want?”

  “You will be,” replied the old man with a wink.

  “Please, call me George.”

  Before Kirk could say or do anything else, George had moved the damaged wheel, whipped the spare out of the back and was tightening the wheel nuts with ease. When he finished, he sprang up and smiled at Kirk. “Shall we go?”

  Kirk was now heading home. George sat beside him as they drove through the country lanes Kirk followed every evening back to his house.

  “So, where are you from?” Kirk asked, as much to break the silence as to find out. “Everywhere.” George smiled.

  Kirk gave him a slight glance but got the same smile as before. For some reason he couldn’t get past the idea that he had met George before, and more than once, but for the life of him, he couldn’t place the old man.

  Up ahead, in a field that usually stood vacant,

  Kirk noticed something that had not been there this morning. A portable toilet now stood next to a wall near the road. Waiting just outside the toilet was a curious-looking man with a large pink umbrella who appeared, judging by his attire, to have been passing an exploding theatrical costume shop just as it went off. He was accompanied by what Kirk could only describe as an angry woman obviously lost after a wild fancy-dress party with a definite Scottish theme. The idea occurred to him that perhaps she had been caught in the same clothing-related explosion and had just faired better than her colleague.

  Rain began to hit the windshield, so Kirk turned on the wipers. Without warning, George lunged across the car and grabbed the wheel.

  “We need to stop over by that tree.”

  Kirk was surprised by the sudden attack and worried at the strength the old man seemed to possess. He valiantly pulled back the wheel and kept the car on the right side of the road.

  “If you want to get out, just ask!” Kirk barked at the old man, who was still smiling.

  Kirk eased on the brake, but the old man lunged for the wheel again, simultaneously reaching a wiry leg across and jamming his foot down hard on the accelerator.

  Kirk swung wildly to regain control of the car, but the old man, despite appearances, was exceptionally strong. Kirk looked through the windshield and was horrified to see they were heading straight for the strange couple by the portable toilet. He made one last effort to steer the car, then covered his face and braced for the inevitable impact.

  “Unless I miss my mark,” the Professor began moments earlier. “he’ll be coming from this direction.”

  The Professor pointed down the road and assumed what he hoped was a pose that would strike anyone watching, but specifically Maggie, as that of a man who knew exactly what was likely to happen in the next few minutes.

  Rolling her eyes, Maggie turned to look in the opposite direction, and, as she expected, saw the vehicle heading their way.

  The car was a battered Ford, swerving wildly across the road as it headed in their direction at what seemed a fairly unsafe speed.

  “Er... Professor?”

  “Not now, Maggie,” the Professor said. “He’ll be here momentarily. I think I see him coming up the road now.”

  Maggie had a quick look over her shoulder, in the direction the Professor was once again pointing, and saw nothing but empty road for miles. When she turned back, the car was almost on them, heading straight at them.

  “Professor!” shouted Maggie as she spun around, grabbed her colle
ague and threw him over the wall before hastily leaping after him.

  They rolled down into the field, chunks of the wall exploding behind them, as the car plowed through the dry stone structure and came to a sudden and permanent halt as it slammed into a tree.

  “My word!” The Professor said. “Certainly makes an entrance, doesn’t he?”

  “You can say that again,” growled Maggie, swiftly pulling a fierce knife from her boot and glaring at the car, waiting for another attack.

  The Professor carefully stood up and dusted himself down. “I don’t think you’ll be needing that, Maggie,” he said.

  She grudgingly sheathed her knife as the front passenger door opened and a small, wrinkled old man in faded orange robes rolled out.

  Despite appearing well past his prime, the old man sprang up and quickly surveyed the scene. He didn’t seem at all surprised to see the Professor and Maggie, and as he looked at the wrecked car, a large smile flashed across his face. He turned to his audience, gave a small bow to Maggie, then turned to the Professor.

  “I’d get going if I were you, Professor, he said.

  “I don’t think my friend in there will be in a very good mood when he wakes up.”

  The old man glanced back at the car. “And that’ll be any moment now!”

  Without further comment, the old man hitched up his robes to reveal two thin, yet muscular legs, and set off running at a speed Maggie would have thought impossible for a man of his years.

  A groan came from the car, and Maggie looked at the Professor for advice. The Professor was still watching the rapid departure of the old man, who was making excellent time crossing the field, and took the fence at the other side in one swift leap before disappearing from view.

  “I think, all things considered, we should probably be off now,” he said.

  Maggie gave a puzzled look at the Professor, then after the old man, or at least where she had last seen the old man. Slowly, she returned her attention to the car and cautiously approached it. Another groan from inside made her draw her blade again, but she stood her ground.

  When she turned back to look at the Professor, her face was wracked with confusion. “That?” she pointed. “That’s the savior of the Universe?”