Chapter XIIIa

Fate spoke. "Hello? My little friend? I need you to wake up; I have just one more job for you."

The particle moved slightly. "What?!? Another job?" The particle hovered in the depths of space, where it was currently hitting on some particles from the debris from the IRS Audit.

"Just a little job. I promise."

"Now, look, just who do you think you are?" The particle was clearly irritated.

Fate was taken aback. "Why, I am Fate. The Shaper of Reality, the Weaver of the Great Tapestry, the..."

"And why does that concern me?"

"Now, look. You are just a particle of dust, an insignificant little..." Fate struggled to find the right words. "...hairball wanna-be, while I am the single most important factor in all the universe."

"What are you going to do to me? I mean, I’m already a particle. You can’t break me down any more."

"No..." Fate hesitated. "But...I could change your form."

"What do you mean?"

"I could make you a photon."

"Oh, God. Not that." The particle was visibly shaking.

"That’s right. Neither wave or particle, the photon is the transvestite of the physical world. You’d be the laughing stock of the universe."

"All right. All right." The particle looked defeated. "Where do you want me to go?"

"Not very far," said Fate. "Just a few parcecs..."

"I can handle that."

"...About three weeks in the past."

"What?!?" The particle screamed. "That’s insane!"

Fate stroked the little particle. "Hush, now. Just let me encode you, and you’ll be all right."

"Well, okay...but how am I going to get to the past? And when?"

Fate glanced upward, as if checking the time. "The answer to both questions...is right about...now."

It was at this point that one of the two remaining missiles exploded, directing all of its awesome forces at the time particle.

"Yowwie yowwie yowwie yowwie yowwie..." shouted the particle as it was flung into the past.

"Hated to do that," said Fate, who, upon thinking about it said, "No...not really. Actually, it was kind of fun." And Fate went back to work, whistling merrily.

The preceding was, of course, probably entirely metaphorical.

"Didn’t you all hear me?!?" One of the Clyde-shaped objects yelled to the people at the doorway. "I said, ‘My name is Clyde Pennet’. Y’know, Clyde Pennet? The Anti-Clyde? You must have been waiting for me."

Clyde turned around from the door and let out a "Shush!" of irritation; Clyde Pennet shot out a bolt of pure energy from his hands that reduced Clyde Millers to a thin red paste. Suddenly, Dr. Anderson (who, at the first sign of the EMP, teleported himself and everyone from the ART to Clyde’s house) ran in from the kitchen and shouted "I’ve got it! I’ve managed to rig up a contraption out of the television and drier that should restore the Earth’s electricity. Unfortunately, since it’s a rush, jury rigged job, it’ll only work once but..."

Anderson flipped the switch on the contraption.

All of the lights went on in Clyde Millers’ house.

All of the lights went on in Clyde Millers’ neighborhood.

All of the lights went on all over the world.

Then the nuclear missile mentioned earlier detonated.

All of the lights went out in Clyde Millers’ house.

All of the lights went out in Clyde Millers’ neighborhood.

All of the lights went out all over the world.

"Terrific," mentioned Yolanda.

"This is all your fault!" shouted Dr. Anderson at Dr. DeGana. "You’ve been too concerned with those damn numbers to worry about anything else."

"That’s because you’ve been utterly worthless in determining what they are."

Anderson adjusted his coat. "Well, you were the one who thought they were coordinates."

DeGana inhaled sharply. "Oh, yeah? Well, you thought they were related to traffic signals Greenwich Village!"

Anderson crossed his arms. "Well, you thought they were a telephone number."¹

DeGana narrowed his eyes. "Well...you thought they were related to weather patterns in Spearfish, South Dakota."

"Oh, yeah? Well..." Anderson hesitated. "Wait a minute. You were the one who thought they were related to weather patterns in Spearfish, South Dakota."

"Really?"

"Yes!"

"Sorry, Chet. I get us confused sometimes."

"I’m Igmar! You’re Chet!!!"

Pennet cleared his throat. "I said that I am Clyde Pennet! The Avatar of Destruction! The Bane to Reality! The..."

Theodore Lind turned around sharply. "Now, look Mr. Pennet, I don’t really care who you are, or why you are here...I’m much more interested in watching the smoldering van."

Everyone else who was looking out the door turned around in unison and said, "Yeah!"

Pennet’s eyes widened. "The...smoldering...van?" He stood up and paced a tight circle. "The burning van!?! Are you people mad? I signify the end of all that is! The finale of everything! The great closure! And you are interested in a..." he spat out the last words. "Smoldering van!?!?!"

Everyone ignored him, and so Clyde Pennet, the Anti-Clyde, decided to take a trip to calm his mind. He decided to take a dip in the time stream.

  ¹ It turns out that, read backwards, the first ten digits did define a phone number in Fergus Falls, Minnisota. When it was called, nobody was home, but an answering machine was on that yielded the following cryptic message:

"Hello, this is the secret mountain base of Admiral 'Skip' Lymon. If I'm not here, and I'm not in Atlantic City, then I've probably been killed by roaches. Sorry."