Ten Minutes Late for Reality

Preface

It's a story as old as time--or at least ten minutes. Boy meets girl. Boy loses girl. Boy loses job. Boy loses car. Boy loses mind and writes an awful novel about wizards and talking eyes. It's tragic, really...

Day One, Chapter One:

Quotations at the beginning of a chapter are so cliché. - Lou Morris.

Lou Morris was driving dejectedly down Route 571 towards the local 11-7 convenience store for no particular reason. The road was quiet and the sun was shining bright this late August morning and only a few oncoming cars passed him on his way down the wooded two-lane country road. He was driving his first car, a big gold 1971 Buick Riviera that was a hand-me-down from his late aunt. He noticed this and slammed on his brakes in alarm.

What the [expletive]!? Lou blurted, his gold boat-tail Buick idling roughly and belching smog in the middle of the road. He wiped his face as if trying to wake himself up from a horrible, horrible dream and sighed a deep long sigh.

I'm rewriting that [expletive deleted] book again, aren't I? Lou asked, looking at himself in the rear-view mirror.

That's not your line.

Lou shook his head in a why me? sort of way. He was good at that. He blinked at the steering wheel in front of him, hoping that it would go away. This car was the biggest piece of [expletive] [deleted] I ever had. Well, except for that Geo Metro Convertible. But that was meant to be a cheap piece of [expletive]. He frowned. Stop censoring me. he said. I hate that [deleted].

Just calm down and tell the readers how you got fired.

Do you realize, said Lou, trying to remain calm, that I am forty years old, married with two kids, and I honestly do not remember, nor care when, how or why I got fired from a job I had when I was only eighteen [expletive] years old.

You are not forty.

I was born in 1970. It's now 2011. Do the math.

Forty-one?

I was born in November.

Irregardless, here you are. The year is 1989 and you are eighteen years old and you've just lost your job.

Maybe in this world, this book, but in reality, my reality, I'm really 40. I assume you are re-writing or re-editing this book and now I'm in it. Again. Still. Whatever. Lou looked at himself in the rear-view mirror; no glasses and no gray hair. Plenty of acne. When I first wrote it, the main character was my eighteen year old self, but I guess screwing around with rewrites and edits changed all that.

That makes no sense.

We wrote it! Lou exclaimed, Of course it doesn't make any sense! We've been polishing this turd for twenty years and it makes less sense now than when we started!

So let me get this straight--you, as the main character in this story, is myself in the present time and I, the writer of this novel, is yourself back when you first started writing it. Does that make any sense to you?

Nope.

Okay then.

Exactly.

Well?

Well, what? asked Lou, still sitting behind the wheel of his 1971 Buick Riviera, parked in the middle of a lonely rural Cassville road. Route 571 from the looks of it, just without all the housing plans, strip malls and traffic.

We still have this book to finish. It's not going to get done if we sit here and argue about it.

You aren't sitting. I can't even see you. I don't even hear you. I must be going insane, said Lou. He sighed as he looked upwards, towards the black fabric liner of the car roof.

Are you ready to tell the readers how you lost your first job?

He sighed again. You aren't going to let me leave this book until I do it, are you?

Nope.

Can't we just skip to the end? Toss the ring in and congrats all around.

Not going to happen.

Okay. Fine. Whatever, Lou moaned then squinted in thought. What job did I get fired from when I was eighteen? I worked with Jacob's dad for a bit, but I don't remember getting fired. He looked at his dashboard in thought then let his eyes wander over to the radio. A thin wire hung out the cassette slot and wound it's way back up to a small squarish CD player sitting on top of the dash, getting hot and faded from the sun. He wondered what CD lay inside. Heart? Genesis? Oh! Was it the carousel at the mall?

How can you not remember getting fired from Six Guns Death Adventure? It was your first real job!

Six Guns Death Adventure? Lou questioned. Don't you mean [redacted]? He frowned. [Redacted], he said again, frowning further.

Six Guns Death Adventure.

Six Guns Death Adventure, Lou repeated. That's retarded. Who would name an amusement park that?

The new owners, Six Guns corporation. It's a whole cowboy theme. Six shooters, lots of adventure. And death, apparently. They even put a giant cowboy out by the entrance instead of that old lion. Get it?

Okay, fine. Whatever. Six Guns Death Adventure, Lou said, rolling his eyes. "Speaking of which, I need to go to the store and buy some flags. Six of them. It'll be great for an adventure."

Your sarcasm is noted. Now just calm down and tell the readers how you got fired.

I'll do one better. Lou reached around and fished for a copy of his novel from the back seat of the Riviera among the trash and detritus of his teenaged life, circa 1989. He found the hand-made spiral-bound book and inspected the cover. On it was typed, "Ten Minutes Late for Reality, by Lou Morris. He flipped through the book, comprised of dot matrix printed words on translucent onion skin pages and read a few paragraphs to himself. This is utter crap," he said finally.

Excuse me?

This is worse than I remembered. Lou quickly flipped through a bunch more pages. It gets better later, but the first few chapters are pretty bad. Seriously, wizards and talking eyes? What were we thinking?

Where did you get that?

We wrote it, remember? Lou shook his head. Back when we were a eighteen year old loser with delusions of being a writer.

That's not true.

It isn't? Lou spat. Then this isn't some post-pubescent self-insertion fantasy? Because it sure looks like it to me. Lou flipped through the hand-made book further and sighed. "It isn't all bad; but it does need a large amount of editing and rewriting. He looked up at the black vinyl roof liner with sudden realization. Is that what's happening?"

Just tell us how you got fired.

Who's us? You, yourself and eye? Lou snickered. Get it? he added.

Yeah, I get it. And so will you if you don't start with the story.

I honestly don't remember anymore. It's been a long time; way too long. I'll just read what I said in the book. Lou flipped the book to chapter one. Anywho... He took a deep breath then began reading aloud.

It all started last year when I had just about run out of money; most of which went into my gas hog of a car. So I decided to go out and get a job. Not a real one, mind you, but an easy part-time summer job. I drove down the street from my Cassville, Pennsylvania home--

I didn't grow up in Pennsylvania! Lou looked upwards, We grew up in [redacted]!

I changed all the names and places to protect the innocent.

How did you manage to pre-edit a copy of a book you didn't even know existed? asked Lou, squinting at himself in the rear-view mirror. Right. You know what--forget I even asked. Anywho...

I drove down the street from my Cassville, Pennsylvania home--a totally fictional place, of course--to the local amusement park, Six Guns Death Adventure--also a fictional place and not to be confused with any other amusement park in this fictional town of Cassville. My car was, and still is, a 1971 Buick Riviera--two tons of gold steel from its chromed front bumper to its pronounced boat tail rear. It has a huge motor and an even bigger gas tank that always seems to be empty. It also has a brown driver's door. And more than a few dents.

So I drove down to Death Adventure, not even bothering to look at my gas gauge, even though it was very rapidly moving towards empty. I pulled into Death Adventure through the employee entrance and came to a screeching halt next to the security booth. It wasn't a screeching halt because of my tremendous speed, but because my car needed new brakes; I guess it still does. The security person--male or female, I couldn't tell--after being rudely awakened by my brakes and the lack of them, directed me to the personnel department.

During the drive to Death Adventure I had been thinking that maybe I wasn't the amusement park type and that maybe they wouldn't hire me. I couldn't have been more wrong. After an exhaustive and grueling interview in which I was asked, 'Above or under the table?' and then, 'Games, Rides or cleaning up after people?' I was hired.

"I'm not kidding; that's the way it went. So after a few minutes of paperwork, I was ready to man my first game stand. Not any normal game of pure chance like the wheels at the boardwalk but a seductive game of skill that charmed every single passerby into bothering the hell out of me. The game was called Choke Your Chicken. The object was to hit an adjustable catapult-like contraption with a rubber mallet so that your rubber chicken--modestly priced at two for a buck--would be flung towards, but rarely into, a set of boiling pots revolving around a plastic fire."

"The lame jokes like, 'Hey Mister, can I choke your chicken?' and 'Dude, I bet you're pretty good at choking chickens!' from snide teenagers wasn't really a big deal. No, it was the constant stream of abnormal brainless customers waving money in my face that was like having seagulls peck away at my brains and the waves upon waves of customers was like the surf pounding, pounding away at my will to live. If having millions of annoying people playing the game wasn't horrible enough, the game itself made obnoxious chicken noises. All day and night long: Bock, bock, cluck, cluck, chirp. Kill me."

There were other games of course, and as the season came and went, I pretty much manned them all at one point or another. Against my better judgment, I came back the next spring for another season, with a promotion to Games Runner and a dime more an hour. Everything was going pretty darn spiffy or so I thought...

And that's when I met my first girlfriend. Her name was Mary Elgort. I asked her out on the spot and later that night we ended up sitting in the parking lot of the local We-We, swapping saliva and other pathogens.

Holy [expletive deleted]! I forgot all about scary Mary! Lou exclaimed. Jeez, I was so stupid back then.

Keep reading.

Whatever, Lou sighed and began where he left off.

She was nineteen, an unnatural blond, a high school senior and about three inches taller than my five foot five. She drove a old Dodge Dart; green, like her eyes and decrepit, like her soul.

Lou flipped the book onto the passenger seat and shook his head. Fine. You happy now? he asked no one in particular. He looked in his smudgy rear-view mirror and noticed an old gray hair parked behind him, unsure of what to do. He lowered his window and waved her on with a, Pass, you idiot.

Chapter Two:

In the age of wizards and witches, magicians and mages, necromancers and... and... nuns? Oh, forget it. - The discarded beginning from the scrapped book, Lou and that Fire Wizard Person.

It was a time of medieval might and/or maniac magic. Of mundane monsters and their money-hungry mobs. Of long, lonely tunnels and some homeless trolls. A sprinkle of hired dragons in designer rental dungeons. Of expropriated holes in the ground and the gnarms who no longer live there. Of cheap and plentiful magical trinkets and the goblin sweatshops that enchant them. And of adventure schools and the stream of level one graduates looking for easy coin. But most importantly it was almost time for a particular fire wizard and a meeting he had scheduled at an ubiquitous mead hall.

It was a newly refurbished mead hall, in a newly rebuilt village, in a no longer smoldering section of the countryside, near the outskirts of the former city of Ornus. The brightly lit will-o-wisp sign proclaimed this mead hall's name, Obojazz. It was so named as a tribute to the former owner; not a namesake, as it wasn't the name of the original owner nor of his family, but an unfortunate tribute to his demise.

The former owner was a gnarm and after the Sentient Race Food Treaty of 6112, which ended a long and bloody war between the invading mantids and the humans, elves, orcs and other miscellaneous sentient races of planet Moss, all gnarms were thereby declared a vital resource for the common good. This meant that every living gnarm on planet Moss was subject to immediate processing. Food processing. Because, surprisingly, it turns out they were yummy. Obojazz, was the last thing the former owner said before being led away from his mead hall in chains. The word obojazz is not a nice word in the Gnarmish tongue; it means something akin to, May ye choke on my bones and die. Which is why Obojazz is now a mead hall and not a full restaurant.

Nowadays every sentient being is taught to speak the common Gnarmish tongue; a short, stocky language, it was deemed both a fitting tribute as well as solving the problem of needing a common language between races that have never before needed to say anything other than the guttural screams and grunts of pitched battle. It was a required provision of the treaty so that every race would be able to speak to one another as equals--everyone but the gnarms themselves, or course. All gnarms born nowadays are farm raised and have mandatory tongue clipping and brain scrambling at birth. No one likes talking food.

Many humanoids of various races and sizes were seated at the long bar across the entirety of the rear wall, while still others were seated at blood and mead stained tables scattered around the large room. Since Obojazz does not illegally discriminate against race or smell, the place was packed with some pretty strange beings--including a couple of preening felines, a few hobo-goblins begging for coin, the odd fungus person, a clay golem or two and a lone elf dressed like a pirate. A carved sign above the bar proclaimed Obojazz's only rule: No gold, no service! A sign nailed to the bottom of that sign proclaimed an additional rule: No Fire Wizards!

Everyone seemed to be having a good time--the orcish barkeep was happy because drunk adventurers tend to tip very well (Here's a diamond for ye!), the serving wench was happy because all of a sudden it got quite nice and cool in the usually stuffy mead hall; and the young pervert magician in the corner was rather happily fondling the serving wench's undergarments, which he had just magically removed from her person. Overall, everyone was fairly happy.

A fat tubby fellow wearing stained brown breeches wandered in and up to the bar. He sat on an empty stool with a squeak and raised his hand to summon the barkeep.

The barkeep ignored him.

Excuse me, the tubby fellow asked meekly. I'm looking for work.

Why are ye asking me? I ain't got no work for thy likes of ye, laughed the orcish barkeep loudly. Ye would eat up all thy profits, ye would.

He could be a serving wench! yelled the pervert wizard in the corner. He's got thy tits!

Amid the laughter an elf yelled, But he hasn't got thy right bits, ye see! A leather and chain-mail clad fighter replied, Methinks I can fix thy problem--I can slice off his bits and he'll be a right round she! More laughter and snorting of beer and mead followed the tubby fellow as he squirmed off his stool and found a seat in the far corner next to a smelly fighter in studded leather adorned with bits of chainmail and a fancy elf in a woodland green vest over a puffy white pirate shirt. He smiled at them and they failed to smile back.

In stepped a rather unusually clad wizard of sorts. At first glance, one could immediately notice something was amiss about him. Maybe it was the way he was dressed--fiery red robes with magical flames dancing around, from the cuffs of his black gnarmish boots, up to the brim of a magical black stove pipe hat which concealed a few stubborn tufts of red hair on his bald head. A second look, one would notice that he carried no weapons or items save for a single red ruby ring. And a quick sniff would reveal that he smelled like a charcoal briquette.

Suddenly, everyone stopped being very happy. Some became very frightened, others became very angry, and still others became very non-existent and left the mead hall.

The older wizard frowned slightly. Hello, all ye fellows! he said. He brushed the wrinkles from his bright red robes, sending ripples of decorative flame out from his shoulders. I hope everyone is having a fine evening.

No reply. The mead hall was silent. Even the huge monster-sized crickets in the cellar were silent.

Almost universally on Moss, wizards are extremely well liked; they are extraordinarily useful and provide many otherwise unavailable services to their non-magical brethren. Stone wizards, for example, are quite handy when you need to build a wall or a castle or to rebuild an entire town that was destroyed. Wood wizards are similarly useful in constructing houses or, say, reconstructing a school or mead-hall that was accidentally burnt to the ground. Even mundane earth wizards command premium prices to carve tunnels and dungeons under mountains while those of a more treasure seeking bent specialize in locating and extracting rare ores and gemstones for nobles and royalty. Water wizards make quite profitable living dowsing rods as well as excellent fire fighters. Air wizards specialize in luxury transportation and even the most modest air apprentice can make plenty of coin selling air freshness charms of various scents. Life and Death wizards are the clerical masters, healing the sick and raising the dead. And because of this, magic use is so well accepted that any parent would be happy beyond measure to have their children someday grow up to be a wizard, any wizard. Well, any wizard, save for a fire wizard. A fire wizard, they would disown and curse the gnarms wondering what they could have done to make cruel fate forsake them so.

Fire wizards are the exception to the rule. Everyone likes wizards; except fire wizards. Every wizard is useful; except fire wizards. Every school of magic teaches wizards of all kinds; except fire wizards. Every wizard contributes to society; except fire wizards. The only good dead wizard is a fire wizard. Any idiot can start a fire; it takes a fire wizard to really cause havoc. They are shunned and disliked because only fire wizards have a nasty knack of destroying buildings and towns accidentally on purpose. The barkeep gave this particular fire wizard a sneer. He didn't happen to like the idea of his mead hall going up in smoke. Again.

But this fire wizard did. He walked up to the bar and sat down upon one of the many now vacant bar stools. A few brave patrons stood their ground out of drunken determination, while most beat a hasty retreat and either quickly exited the mead hall or at the very least, gave the crazy fire wizard some serious space. Since the fire extinguisher hadn't been invented yet, and most medieval insurance policies disallowed Act of Fire Magick, most people tended to avoid this fellow like a plague. Of fire.

Can't ye read? snorted the plump barkeep, pointing at the No Fire Wizards! sign.

Only things worth reading, replied Kaye-Boom. Yes, that was his name. He picked it out when he left the employ of the local wizarding college after it was destroyed in an accidental fire that he had absolutely nothing to do with.

Well then, if ye insist on staying, how about a mug of water to quench thy thirst? the barkeep asked with a hint of sarcasm reserved for a fire wizard who burns down his own wizard school and then picks a ridiculous name for himself.

Nay, Kaye-Boom replied. He liked water as much as gnarms like getting their bits clipped and their brains scrambled. Give me a flask of ye finest lighting oil.

The barkeep blinked. Oil? he asked.

Kaye-Boom nodded.

After a minute of searching, the barkeep produced a flask of oil. Would ye like thy oil on thy rocks?

Nay. He took the flask, opened and then emptied it with one swig. He looked around.

Everyone left eyed him suspiciously.

He tossed down a lit sliver of wood after the oil.

Eyebrows were raised...

Flames comically erupted from Kaye-Boom's ears and nose. After a moment, they died down and were replaced by a trickle of smoke. Keep the yokels in awe, Kaye-Boom thought. Last week he took a small bath in a volcanic flow. The week before, he lay on the beach for the entire day with not a single trace of tan on his body.

The yokels were not yet impressed. All the sane patrons had already left, leaving those regulars who probably witnessed the last few bar burnings and were pretty much sick of them. They turned away, hoping he'd either leave or do something crazy stupid.

Kaye-Boom grabbed a handful of peanuts from small basket of snacks; his hand brushed the basket and set it aflame. Mesmerized by the flames, he watched the wicker basket shrivel up.

The orcish barkeep quickly strode over to Kaye-Boom and splashed out the flaming basket of peanuts with a pitcher of mead. Why don't ye go play tag with thy fire-breathing hydra, the barkeep scowled, and leave my tavern alone.

A fire-breathing hydra, in case you were wondering, is a foul dragon-sized creature with more heads than a jumbo crate full of lettuce. And less brains.

Later, Kaye-Boom replied. First I have to make thy important announcement. He stood up, underpaid the barkeep for his trouble and walked over to the center of the tavern. May I have ye attention please! Kaye-Boom yelled.

The tavern was again filled with the noise of aimless drunken chatter. Hardly anyone was paying Kaye-Boom the slightest bit of attention.

Fiery fried frogs! blurted Kaye-Boom. Can I have ye attention!

Did ye just say 'fiery fried frogs' or am I hearing things? asked the burly fighter from the corner.

He did, answered the tubby fellow next to him.

Kaye-Boom frowned. 'Tis my theme phrase, he said, ignoring the increasing amount of laughter. I also wrote a theme poem.

Can we hear your theme poem? asked the pervert wizard, laughing. I need some more tips on how not to pick up women.

Actually, a good poem is thy perfect way to a woman's heart, said the elf sitting near them.

Ye can keep her heart, chuckled the wizard, and I'll take thy rest of her.

That's enough! Everyone pay attention, or I'll use my ring! Kaye-Boom announced sternly, losing patience with the crowd.

Suddenly the tavern became very quiet. All eyes were on Kaye-Boom and his magical ruby ring. It was common knowledge that a ruby ring destroyed the town of Ornus, the late owner having accidentally stubbed his toe and set half the city ablaze. The ring was presumed destroyed in the molten rubble along with its owner until Kaye-Boom showed up wearing it a few months ago. No one knows how he acquired it, if it was indeed the same ring or if he even knows the command words to activate it.

Good, now that I have thy attention, I shall begin. He cleared his throat. Thank ye all for coming tonight. Ye may have seen my posts and fliers around town these last few days for I have grave news for us all; a terror that will surely engulf thy entire planet Moss! Or, at thy very least, incinerate this entire village!

Ye almost did that last week, moron! someone in the back yelled. When ye burnt down thy wizard school!

Allegedly... And I'm sorry about that, Kaye-Boom added, sheepishly.

Someone in the bar coughed in a come on, get on with it sort of way.

Kaye-Boom nodded silently. Then he started a complicated string of gestures, whispers, eye winking and ended with a snap of his fingers. Flames erupted from his fingertips, spread across the air and scorched a nearby wall. The burnt wall stirred; particles of soot began to form a matrix of small black, white and gray squares. In an instant, the entirety of the tavern was watching a primitive movie... and a particularly bad one as well.

It was a black and white cartoon. It also was a documentary. And it was much too lame to take seriously. An odd-looking translucent figure bounded across the flickering screen shown on the burnt wall. It said, Righty-ho and a Goonie Goo-goo!

People in the hall began to cackle and howl with laughter, banging tables and snorting mead.

The ghostly figure looked like a child's drawing of a three foot tall eye... no body and just two arms, two legs and a big eye. It wore no clothing, save for a pair of odd-looking white shoes. He danced around a lot, shouting things such as: Righty-ho and a Goonie Goo-goo! and Righty-ho and a Goonie Goo-goo!

The orcish bartender choked on a pull of mead--unsuccessfully trying to drink and laugh at the same time. The pervert wizard in the corner shoved a pair of panties in his mouth to soften the laughter. The movie was hilariously stupid.

Is that a Belooker? the elf asked with a laugh.

Nay, belookers are just floating eyes--that ridiculous thing has arms and legs, the burly chain-mail clad fighter replied. With thy right magical sword, I bet I can kill it with one swing.

And I could perforate it with my arrows before ye even pulled your sword, boasted the elf.

Kaye-Boom frowned. This wasn't the reaction he had wanted. But this new evil will destroy many worlds! he yelled over the din.

Oh, really? some smart mouthed wizard yelled back. How--

The volume on the movie somehow got raised up a few notches, effectively drowning out the laughter and yelling.

Hi, my name is TheDeadEye! the two dimensional eye said very loudly.

Kaye-Boom jacked up the volume another notch, just for oomph.

I require your worship and weekly tithing! The prerecorded DeadEye said as it danced around the screen. Make me your emperor-king and become my loyal slave-workers!

See, I told ye... Kaye-Boom added.

Big deal! the barkeep yelled in reply. That crazy-looking eye thing doesn't scare me!

If ye fail to worship me... his voice trailed off. The picture changed, revealing a scene of utter horror--a tranquil rolling meadow filled with sweet flowers... off in the distance two small gnarms wearing clean clothing were dancing around house holes in a grassy hill... presumably colorful butterflies chasing a scruffy dog... peaceful birds chirping off in the distance... total harmony.

'Tis yucky! one bold warrior exclaimed. 'Tis horrid! another exclaimed. Everyone agreed. 'Tis boring... they whispered to themselves. In a world filled with snarling wizards, fearless dragons and crazed adventurers, the boring can seem pretty fearsome.

But that will never happen! the bartender yelled, Such horrors can never take place 'cept in thy otherworldly dimensions!

The picture blanked out. The screen now read: This spell commercial has been brought to you by TheDeadEye! Investors and body donors needed! We are an equal opportunity employer! Solicitations always welcome! Thank you and have a nice day!

Snap! Kaye-Boom snapped his fingers and the movie was over.

Hey! the barkeep yelled to Kaye-Boom, Ye owe me ten gold for thy burnt sidewall!

Kaye-Boom ignored his remark. I need some brave and hearty souls to join me and search out and destroy thy evil that is TheDeadEye!

The place was as quiet as if he were a homeless vampire asking for a few pints of blood.

So are there any brave adventurers here tonight? he asked hopefully.

The tavern was as silent as if he were a hobo-goblin asking passersby for spare coin.

Just raise ye hand if ye want to volunteer, Kaye-Boom added.

His audience looked as if he had just asked them to stand up and volunteer to test a new type of flame retardant.

I just need a few fellows to join me on my quest...

Still, the mead hall was silent.

There could be a lot of treasure to be had...

Three greedy hands immediately shot up.

Chapter Three:

Okay passengers, we'll be landing in around, oh-- Oh, what the hell is that?! - Last outgoing message from a small corporate jet flying over the eastern Pennsylvania Appalachian mountain range.

Purposefully, a small insectoid-made meteorite entered the Earth's atmosphere, fell into the clouds and accidentally collided with a small corporate aircraft carrying seven passengers and a small pet turtle. The remaining husk of the flaming jetliner hurled itself down into a mountain ravine, instantly killing both the captain and the co-pilot. The rocky satellite, minus more than a few critical chunks and pieces, silently continued its no longer predetermined course and embedded itself into the side of a cliff a few mountaintops over from the plane wreckage. Three of the lighter bits and pieces of otherworldly jetsam fell into nearby Cassville, Pennsylvania, while the rest of the radioactive chunks littered themselves around the jet wreckage.

Corwin Weedle walked barefoot outside into his Cassville backyard, munching on half of a leftover tuna fish and celery salad sandwich. He looked around for the small falling rock that he thought he saw land from his dinning room window just a few seconds ago. Oh, there it is, next to the lawn shed. He knelt over to peer at it... What is it?

It was a small burnt chunk of metallic rock. It was also very hot, so he dropped it as quickly as possible. Why was it hot? If anything, he told himself, a fallen meteorite would be cool to the touch, not hot. Hmm... He went inside for his white lab coat and a pitcher of water then returned a few moments later. He slowly poured water over the odd rock, waving away the steam.

After the rock had sufficiently cooled, Corwin picked it up again to examine it. It was a meteorite, all right. He turned it over--an odd looking gallium computer chip of some sort stuck out from the bottom, scarred but relatively unharmed. Hmm...

Corwin took the rock and went inside, heading for the basement, quickly noting that both his parents must've gone out shopping or something; a note taped to the basement door confirmed his suspicion.

Once in his basement laboratory, he placed the rock, top down, onto a clear section of his cluttered work bench. He then grabbed an electric drill, inserted a small sanding bit, and carefully began to