Knees Up Mother Earth

28

Norman awoke to a short, sharp shock: a glass of cold water thrown into his face.

“Awaken, fiend!” a voice commanded.

“Fiend?” said Norman. “What?”

“Look into the face of your nemesis.”

“Hold on there,” cried Norman, floundering about. “Don’t hurt me.”

“Hah! The fiend grovels. He shows no bravery now.”

“No, he don’t, gov’nor. Gawd pickle me plums if he does.”

Norman peeped through trembling fingers. Two figures stood over him, a man and a boy: a portly, well-dressed man and a ragged, ill-washed boy.

“Who are you?” whispered Norman. “Where did you come from?”

“As if you do not know,” said the portly man.

“As if you don’t,” said the ragged boy.

“I don’t,” whimpered Norman. “I truly don’t.”

“We know you, sir,” said the portly man. “You are the King of Darkness, the Evil One himself, and so must be destroyed.”

“No,” wailed Norman. “I’m not. I’m truly not. I’m just a shopkeeper.”

“Prepare to die. I would strongly suggest that you commend yourself to your maker and beg his forgiveness for your numberless transgressions.”

“But I haven’t, I mean, sometimes, but only a bit …” Norman now found himself looking into the muzzle of a pistol. “No,” he howled. “Don’t shoot me.”

“It is better than you deserve. But first …” The gun barrel swung away from Norman. There was a deafening gunshot. Norman’s computer exploded.

“You shot my computer.” Norman made feeble attempts at rising.

“Stay down,” the portly man commanded.

“But you … I mean … You … I mean … Why?”

“Articulate, ain’t he, gov’nor?” said the ragged lad. “Gawd taint me tadpole if he ain’t. And he ain’t.”

“Why … Who … What?” whimpered Norman. And he pointed feebly to the What? in question.

It was a goodly sized what, a big, Victorian goodly sized what, and it now filled much of Norman’s kitchenette. It was like unto a large overstuffed leather armchair mounted upon brass runners and surrounded by all manner of wondrous brass equipment, and involving a good many valves. The whole thing was surmounted by a kind of helicopter-blade arrangement.

“What is that? And how did you get it into my kitchenette?” And, “Cough, cough, cough.”

Norman took to considerable coughing. Thick black smoke was now billowing freely from his bullet-scarred computer. Norman took to fanning at his face.

The portly gentleman fanned at his. “That, sir,” said he, between fits of coughing, “is my Time Machine. And I am Herbert George Wells of Wimpole Street, London.”

“Time Machine?” Norman coughed some more. “Herbert George Wells? You’re H.G. Wells. The H.G. Wells.”

“Your nemesis, you fiend.” The gun barrel was once more pointing towards Norman’s face.

“There’s been some kind of mistake.” Norman covered his face. “You’ve got the wrong man. I’m innocent.”

“Enough of your duplicity. Confess your sins and die like a man.”

“I’m innocent.” Norman assumed the foetal position.

“Then die like the dog that you are.”

Norman heard the cocking of the pistol and then he heard the sound of the gunshot. And then he heard nothing more at all.