The sex was great, but he was so territorial. Peeing on my furniture was the last straw. A gun was easy to get; silver bullets, harder, but now I can buy a new couch and move on.
* * * * *
For Chuck Wendig’s Flash Fiction Challenge, “A Story in Three Sentences.”
He was only a child when his parents were gunned down by a mugger in a dark alley. What they had been doing there he couldn’t remember, but it was no doubt important. The boy became heir to a vast empire of successful companies that he was too young to understand; this ensured him the best education at the world’s top schools, the kinds of places that didn’t have girls in them to distract from learning. He grew up in a world of fencing and philosophy, geometry and gymnastics, chemistry and cricket.
But deep inside, he could not be content. Out on the streets of the city where his parents had died lurked a cadre of criminals that the police were powerless to impede. If he was ever to be truly happy, he needed to slake his thirst for vengeance.
And so he did the only thing a brilliant, athletic, wealthy, determined man would do: invested in a host of high-tech gadgets and a secret lair, then paid a team of Special Forces operative to be masked vigilantes. No sense putting himself in danger unnecessarily.
Teleporting didn’t always bother me. It was straightforward: step into the booth, dial up your destination, close your eyes and when you opened them, there you were. Texas to Tokyo in an instant. Miami to Maui. London to Luna 2.
But it wasn’t instantaneous. Sure, my datapad would automatically change to local time, but that wasn’t it. I didn’t notice until I ported in the middle of checking the clock function, closed my eyes, and saw the jump when I arrived. Thirteen seconds.
I wondered whether I’d imagined it. The next time I ported, I checked again. Thirteen seconds. Curiosity became concern the more I traveled, as the same amount of time was lost with every trip.
You hear about people who won’t port because they think it’s not really them coming out the other side, it’s a copy made from the blueprint the machine takes when it ports you. Was it true? Was I just the copy of the me who first stepped into the machine?
I had to know. I entered a booth, dialed, and opened my eyes.
I saw… I saw light…
Alicia bounded out of her apartment in a clingy slip of cloth, sashaying in front of Rick . “Do you like my new dress?”
He shrugged. “I didn’t realize how much weight you’d put on.”
“If you didn’t have a face like a smacked bottom, maybe you could do better,” she replied. “Let’s go.”
They walked to the train, which whisked them across town to Alicia’s favorite restaurant, Mostly Chicken or Beef With Rice Pilaf. A bum outside held a sign that read, “Booze Isn’t Cheap.”
“Get a job,” Rick told him.
“Mentally ill,” the bum mumbled. “Can’t afford help.”
The restaurant was vaguely Mediterranean, with white tablecloths and wooden chairs. The waiter gave them menus and said he was taking a quick break. After fifteen minutes he returned with a basket of smoky bread; forty minutes later their food arrived. “Hurry up,” he told them. “People are waiting.”
Alice smiled at her chicken. “Isn’t it nice that we don’t have to be diplomatic anymore?”
“Peachy,” Rick said through a bite of steak. “Now shut up and eat.”
Josh wasn’t supposed to replace Jane, he was only supposed to cover her work while she was out of town. Some of the data entry was tedious, but he made a few upgrades to her spreadsheets so he could search and sort faster, and by Tuesday afternoon he had finished tasks that usually took her all week. Unfortunately for her, his boss noticed and started to poke around her computer. He found a bunch of personal pictures, which led to checking her Facebook page, and next thing Josh knew she was getting canned.
Some of the other folks at the office wanted to have a going away party, and it didn’t occur to him that he wouldn’t be invited. It wasn’t really his fault, after all. He showed up at the bar after work to see everyone else having a grand time, including… his girlfriend Petra, sitting in the stool next to Jane.
“Petra, what are you doing here?” Josh asked, just loud enough to be heard above the music.
“What are YOU doing here?” she asked back. Jane turned around and shot him a look that would have wilted flowers, and then frosted them over.
“I came to…” He wasn’t sure. Why had he thought this would be a good idea?
Jane smiled. “As you can see,” she said, slipping an arm around Petra’s waist, “you’ve been replaced. Don’t let the door hit you on the way out.”
* * * * *
