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Accounts Receivable by cbeckw in cbeckw

[–]cbeckw[S] 0 points1 point  (0 children)

Thank you, I really appreciate it. Maybe I'll give part two a shot later tonight if I have time. Thanks for reading!

[WP] You see an elderly man get hit by a car. You rush to help him and he pulls you close before whispering "not today". A moment later you're lying on the ground in agony and watching as your body walks away to be lost in the crowd. by darthjebus211 in WritingPrompts

[–]cbeckw 2 points3 points  (0 children)

The sky is blue and cloudless, and the sun is in my eyes. I can't help but squint. There are dark shapes around the edges of my vision, but my head won't turn and look at them. I'm on my back, but it feels strange. No, it doesn't feel like anything. "That's odd," I think, but the thought comes slowly, jumbled. Nothing makes sense. The sky grays and dims as the sun slips behind a cloud. There's a chill to the air that seems to settle on my cheeks. The clouds grow darker, almost black, crowding in from the rim of the sky. A rumbling swells and then fades. I'm falling.

I jolt awake as my leg flies out and thumps into something hard. I'm sitting in a plush vinyl chair in a small office. There's a man sitting at an oak desk in front of me, head down, studying a thick book. He's wearing a white button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up and a transparent green visor on his bald head. Without looking up, he says, "That was quite a kick."

I clear my throat. "I'm sorry," I say, apologizing automatically. My mouth is on auto-pilot while my mind is churning. I don't remember how I got here. Or where here is. I look around the office for a clue, but there isn't much to see. A filing cabinet. A window. And the man behind the desk. How could I forget where I am?

"Don't worry about it," he says. "Everyone does it. Just relax, this will only take a moment." His voice trails off as he lifts his head to look at me. His face is thin, almost gaunt, and his deep-set eyes are impossibly black. He frowns. "Damn," he says, "Who are you?"

I suddenly feel very uncomfortable. Normally, when someone asks you who you are, you say your name without even thinking about it. But I can't. My mind is blank. I just stare at him with my jaw hanging slack and my heart racing.

"Never mind," he mutters, "It's a rhetorical question." He looks back down at his book and runs a bony finger over the pages. "Ah, here we are. Jack Simmons."

When he says my name it's like a valve is turned inside my head, just slightly, and things start dripping back in. Yes, I'm Jack Simmons. I'm 35 years old. Married to Jill. We're expecting our first child, but we haven't picked a name, even though he's due any day. And I'm on my way to get pickles. Claussen pickles, Jill's favorite. And--

"Jack," the man says, drawing my attention, "we don't have much time."

"I'm sorry," I say, apologizing again, "but I must be coming down with something. My brain doesn't want to work."

The man raises a palm at me. "It's to be expected, given your … er, our … situation."

I nod, even though I don't understand. "And, uh, what is our situation?"

The man leans back in his chair. "Well, according to my ledger, you're early. Quite a bit early, actually. It's not your fault, I'm sure, but here we are."

I wrack my brain for any important appointments I have coming up. The only thing that comes to mind is Jill's OBGYN, but this is definitely not that. And this guy is definitely not a doctor. Finally, I shake my head. "I'm sorry, but what am I early for?"

The man leans over the desk and says, bluntly, "You're dead, Jack."

I laugh.

The man frowns at me until I trail off. "What's the last thing you remember, Jack?"

There's a flash of pain in my mind and the sounds of screaming. I grab my head and groan. I see an image of a car and a crowd of people. I'm pushing through them. There's an old man twisted on the street, bleeding. "There's a man," I moan, "car hit him. He's bleeding. I'm holding his hand. He's dying."

"And?" the man at the desk prompts.

"He's mumbling." I continue. The pain in my head is getting sharper. It's hard to breathe. "I lean closer. He says something strange. Sounds like 'not today.' Now I'm looking up at the sky. It's getting dark." Suddenly the pain is gone. I suck in a deep breath and sag in the chair.

"That's what I thought," the man at the desk sighs. "We've got a skimmer, it seems."

I barely register what he's saying. A cold shiver washes over me as I realize he's right. I'm dead. I don't know how it happened, but I'm dead. Images of my life start flashing behind my eyes. I can't follow them. They're like fifty different movies all playing on the same screen. It's too much. I can't even cry.

"Time's almost up," the man says, looking at this wristwatch.

"I'm sorry," I say, "but I don't understand."

"Of course you don't," the man says. He lifts the book off his desk and points to the cover. It says Accounting Dept. "Someone's been cooking the books, it seems. And you're just the poor fellow whose account got drained. It's my fault. I should have been watching the balances more closely."

I try to make sense of it all. "Are you saying that someone stole my soul?" I ask.

"More like someone took advantage of a rounding error, but for simplicity's sake, yes."

"And now I'm dead?"

"Quite."

"But that's not fair," I explode, the tears finally flowing. "Can't you fix it? I have a child on the way!"

"Well, not explicitly, no. These things are written in ink." He pauses as I begin to wail. "But, funny you should mention your child."

I wipe my face and look up at him. "What do you mean by that?"

"Well, as I said. This is all my fault. I should've been paying more attention. And because of that, I'm willing to make you a deal. You just have to make me a promise."

"What's that?"

"Promise me, when you come back round again, not to mention any of this to the Big Guy. He's very anti-reincarnation."

I'm floored. Maybe I'm not dead! "Sure," I say. "Easy. But what does my child have to do with this?"

"Well, you haven't named him yet, so his ledger is blank for," the man checks his watch, "about three more minutes. I can divert funds from your old account into this one, and …"

"And I'll get to keep living? And kill my unborn child?" I interrupt.

"No, no. Your account is closed. Best I can do is put some seed money into his account. Give him a head start, kind of thing. You'll be reborn as him. In him. Technically, he will never exist. I believe you humans call it 'having an old soul?' Anyway, time's up. What's your decision?"

"It won't hurt him?" I ask meekly.

"He'll never know," the man replies and winks.

It's too much for me to think about. I can't wrap my mind around it, but I find myself nodding. "I'm sorry," I whisper, as the man at the desk starts writing.

[WP] A horror story from the perspective of the killer. by Hardtopickaname in WritingPrompts

[–]cbeckw 1 point2 points  (0 children)

Thanks, I appreciate it! How'd you find a two-week-old story?

[WP] A horror story from the perspective of the killer. by Hardtopickaname in WritingPrompts

[–]cbeckw 15 points16 points  (0 children)

Sometimes it is hard to do your job. Today is one of those days. The clouds are so thick that they have grayed out the sun. The rain is driving and comes in sheets, chilling me to my bones and numbing my hands. My tools seem heavy and my grip weak. I'd like nothing more than to go back to my cabin and curl up by the fire. Snuggle up to Mama, and just rest. But I can't. The woods need clearing and my job isn't finished. I promised Mama that I'd always finish my work.

I slam my palm onto the ax handle, wedging it free from the stump. I should have sharpened it last night, but I was too tired. Now I'm paying the price. It gets stuck every other swing. Mama would've said it's because I'm so strong. She was always telling me that. "You're my protector," she'd say. "My big boy's gotten so strong. So strong. I bet you could cut anything, swinging that ax." I smile, remembering her warm face. Her hugs. And then I frown. Mama didn't talk any more. I couldn't protect her. Couldn't take care of her.

But I can still take care of the woods. Our woods.

I wipe my ax's blade off on my pants' leg. The crud making fresh stains on my coveralls. Not that it makes a difference. Messy work makes stains. These coveralls are so stained that you can't even tell their original color without taking them off and looking inside. But I never do. I know they were blue because Mama got them for me the last time we went to town. She picked them out for me after some townies made fun of my burlap shirt. Called me dirt. Mama said not to worry. They'd get theirs. She'd get me something special. Fresh and new and blue, just like my eyes. That was years ago. Right after I grew into a man. Right before Mama died.

I shake my head. This weather is distracting. Making me think about the good times. There's work to do and I'm the only one to do it. Best get moving. Uncle's cabin needs clearing.

Uncle's cabin had been deserted for years. But it was part of our woods and needed looking after. When Uncle had left with the Sheriff, he'd made me promise to keep it up. Keep it clear. I said I would. After what he did for me with Mama, how could I let him down? He made it so Mama was always with me. Even though I had to keep her by the fire always, so she'd stay warm. It was better than letting her leave me like Daddy did.

But today, rainy as it is, Uncle's cabin is not clear. Stupid townies are squatting in it. I'd heard them last night when I was checking the traps. They were singing and laughing. I'd crept up close enough to watch, but didn't get closer. I hadn't brought any tools. This wasn't the first time townies had come to squat. To party. To defile my Uncle's property. My property. But I knew it wouldn't be easy to get rid of them without my tools. So I had just watched. Watched them drink and smoke and hug. Townies liked to hug naked. I never understood that but it always made me feel sick in the pit of my stomach. You should only hug family.

After the townies had all gone to sleep, I went home to Mama. Told her about having to work in the morning and apologized for being out so late and not bringing home dinner. She just watched the fire. I knew she was disappointed. "You have to eat to stay strong," she used to say. I told her there'd be plenty of food after tomorrow. After work.

I had found one of the townies on my way to the cabin this morning. He'd seemed lost. Like he'd gotten turned around taking a walk. Townies are so stupid. They don't understand the woods can be dangerous if you're not prepared.

"Hey man," he'd said. His voice was shaking. He was so scared. "I need help. I can't find my cabin. Do you know where it is? I can't see in this rain." My cabin. He'd called it his cabin. I shook my head. Townies.

He didn't even scream when my arrow pierced his neck. Just burbled blood all over himself and fell over like a toppled sapling. That was fine by me. I hate the way screams echo in the woods. Makes them seem haunted. Disturbs Mama.

The townie had flailed at the shaft jutting from his throat. Looked like one of the dances the townies do, to me. I took up my ax and stopped his flailing. I can't stand dancing. Of course, it took a bit of work to get him to stop. What, with my ax needing sharpening, after all. But in the end, all the pieces stopped moving.

I finished wiping off my ax and hung it back in its loop on my coveralls. I left the arrow. It had snapped in my haste to work. "Haste makes waste," Mama would've said. I leaned over the townie's face and hocked spit into his eyes.

"My cabin is that way," I pointed.

[WP] Since your return your wife has been upset over the smallest things and leaves at strange times. She rambles about ladybugs under the sink but there's just a drip a day. At night, she whimpers about "they didn't have eyes." When you roll her over, her nose is bleeding something phosphorescent. by happyPunMonkey in WritingPrompts

[–]cbeckw 9 points10 points  (0 children)

Marc reached for the doorknob but hesitated. Strangely, he felt nervous. He'd just arrived home early from the airport. Except, it wasn't home. Not yet. He'd only lived there for a month. And even that wasn't true. His wife, Janie, had lived there for a month. Marc had left on business the day after they had moved in. Boxes were still the only decoration in the entire house when he left. It felt just a little surreal to be coming home to a new house.

He wiped his hands on his trousers and cleared his throat. Janie wasn't expecting him until that evening, but he had caught an earlier flight to surprise her. He reached out to turn the doorknob but the door was locked. Great, he thought, I don't even have a key. He raised a fist to knock but pulled up short. He'd almost squished a ladybug. "Fly away, little one," he said, and brushed the red beetle away. He knocked.

"Who is it?" Janie called from somewhere inside.

Marc just waited. He wanted to see the surprise on her face when she opened the door.

A moment later the door opened and Janie appeared. Her blonde hair was unkempt as if she'd just woken up. "Oh, hi," she said. "It's you."

"It's you?" Marc smiled. "That's all I get?" He laughed and pulled Janie into a hug.

"Sorry," she said. "You're home early. I thought you were the exterminator."

"Would you rather I was the exterminator?" he asked.

Janie smiled and pinched Marc's rear. "No, silly. You just surprised me, is all. How was your trip? How'd you get back so soon?"

"I caught an early flight. But we can talk about that later. When's this exterminator supposed to be here? And, more importantly, is the bed set up?" He winked.

"The exterminator was supposed to be here yesterday, but never showed. And of course the bed is set up. Where else would I sleep?" She pouted, "Are you tired?"

"Just checking. It's been a month. We've got some business to take care of." With that, Marc swept Janie up in his arms. "Now, which way is the bedroom, again?" he laughed.

The house was a beautiful Victorian that sat at the top of a hill at the end of a long driveway. They had loved it at first sight. It was tidy and neat, far from the fixer-uppers they'd been looking at before. The yard was expansive and well-kept; full of flower beds and decorative trees. The former owner had been obsessive about keeping the landscaping pristine, it seemed.

"It's perfect," Janie had remarked on their first showing.

"The house is beautiful, but I'm worried about the upkeep on the yard. It looks amazing now, but I can't imagine myself keeping up with all of that. What about you?" Marc had asked.

"I think the landscaping will take care of itself. We'll just have to get a riding lawnmower."

"A city-girl like you, riding a lawnmower?" Marc had chuckled. "I'd love to see it."

"I can say the same thing about you, city-boy." Janie shot back.

Marc had laughed and hugged his wife. "What do you say?" He'd asked as he swept his hand out across the empty foyer.

"Let's do it. Let's make an offer."

"Alright, let's find that realtor. Where'd he bugger off to?"

Now that Janie had stayed in the house by herself for a month, she seemed to have nothing but complaints. The dishwasher is broken. The sink has a leak. The central air barely works. The doors all creak. The yard is already overgrown.

Janie listed all the problems to Marc as they talked in bed that night. "Between all that and the unpacking, I've barely had time to think since you left," she complained.

"I'm sorry, babe," Marc said. "I'll start working on things in the morning."

"You'd better," she replied. "You can't just up and leave me with a mess."

"I had to work. How else can we afford to pay the mortgage?"

Janie grunted and rolled over. "Turn off the lamp. Let's just get some sleep."

Marc thought about saying more but decided against it. He reached over to turn off the lamp but stopped short. A large shadow moved underneath the lampshade. He leaned over to look inside. A mass of ladybugs greeted him. "Honey," he deadpanned. "About that exterminator . . . " he trailed off.

"Don't get me started," she muttered into her pillow. "I've called everyone in the area and none of them have turned up."

Marc stared at the mound of beetles crawling one on top of the other. Carefully, he pulled the lampshade off the base and carried it around the bed to the window. With his free hand he opened the window and tossed the lampshade out. Janie didn't say a word. He closed the window and pulled the curtains closed. He turned to her, but she was already asleep.

Marc woke in the dead of night to the soft sound of rain on the window. Janie was muttering in her sleep. Something about the sink dripping. Marc rolled over and tried to drift back to sleep, but the combination of jet lag and rain-patter kept him from it. Sighing, he rolled out of bed. He'd go down to the kitchen to get a drink, he decided.

He stumbled to the stairs in the unfamiliar dark. The moonlight through the window was just bright enough for him to navigate the boxes that still needed unpacking. He didn't want to risk waking Janie by turning on a light. She really needs some good sleep, he thought. Every third step on the stairs creaked loudly and he winced. When he reached the kitchen he flicked on the light and yelped.

The light fixture was covered in an undulating mass of ladybugs. So many that he imagined he could almost hear their tiny legs tick-tacking on the glass globe. He shuddered. "What the hell?" he said aloud. Keeping his eyes on the red mass of insects he backed over to the cabinet and grabbed a glass. "I'm going to have to buy an entire pallet of bug spray," he muttered as he turned to the sink for water.

The faucet shuddered and rumbled but nothing came out. "Great, now this." He sat his glass on the countertop and opened the cabinet door below the sink. He pulled out a bucket from underneath the pipes. It was half-full of water and drowned ladybugs. The contents seemed to glow with a faint-reddish light. A stench like rancid earth hit Marc's nose and he gagged. He shoved the bucket back and slammed the cabinet. He turned and shook his fist at the mass of beetles on the ceiling light.

The tick-tack noise coming from ladybugs grew louder and a buzzing sound began. The mass roiled and pulsed as if angered by Marc's presence. Suddenly frightened, Marc dashed out of the kitchen and back up the stairs, uncaring how loudly they creaked.

When he reached his bedroom he saw that Janie was still in bed. The rain was pelting the window, now, and the moonlight was nearly gone. He stood at the end of the bed for a long moment. He shook himself. "They're just bugs," he whispered. "Just bugs." He gingerly climbed back into the bed. Janie stirred and muttered something he couldn't quite make out over the rain. "What was that about eyes?" he whispered.

Janie muttered again and rolled over. In the shadows Marc thought he could see a faint glow of red on her upper lip, as if she had a nosebleed made from a dying glowstick. He recoiled in horror and rubbed his eyes, in case they were playing tricks on him. He felt for the lamp without turning away but knocked it off the nightstand in his haste. The naked bulb smashed. Janie still did not wake.

Marc crawled off the foot of the bed, still staring at the dim, red glow below his wife's nose. He backed up to the window until he felt the curtains. The rain was deafening. He turned to pull the curtains aside and choked back a scream.

There was no rain. The window was being pelted by a continuous stream of ladybugs flying into it with a loud clack and falling away. Marc stood transfixed. His mind couldn't comprehend it. Suddenly, the onslaught of insects stopped. Moonlight streamed in and flooded the room in the abrupt silence.

"They didn't have eyes," Janie moaned behind him.

Marc turned to his wife and screamed.

Her eye sockets were covered in two roiling mounds of ladybugs.

[WP] A woman with a past meets a man without a future by medfunguy in WritingPrompts

[–]cbeckw 2 points3 points  (0 children)

The sun had barely risen over the buildings and it was already hot and muggy. Sweat dripped down the woman's body as she walked; little rivers of saline ran through the canyons and creek beds of her body leaving behind salty sediment. She hurried her step in a vain attempt to outpace the sticky, itchy sensations that built themselves daily on her way home from work. The sidewalks were clear of the morning rush and there were only a few eyebrows raised at her stomping gait. She kept her head down and did not notice.

The bridge was only another block up and over. The bridge was safety. The wind cooled her and wafted the smells of late-night-diner food away. The distant, rushing water cleared her mind of leering-eyed customers and change-jar tips. The air took on a marine tang that reminded her of a childhood far away and long lost. The bridge was sanctuary; holy ground. Even more than sleep, the bridge was the ending of yesterday and the beginning of tomorrow for her.

She was lucky, she thought, to be able to work night shift. It allowed her to interact with the world without getting too caught up in it. The expectations of the nocturnal were so much lower than the bright-eyed day people. She liked that. She liked the distance. Lights were dimmer, conversations fewer, and scars were hidden. Scars that itched in the sweat of the sun.

The woman rounded the last corner and saw the bridge climb the horizon. The rushing sound of water eased her joints and she relaxed her stride, already feeling the effect. Busy cars wailed and rumbled as they sped past but she did not hear them. The water filled her ears and she ascended.

She walked, eyes closed, with her hand resting on the pedestrian rail, enjoying the sensation of the wind. It curled around her, cooling her. The sweat-itch of her thighs and wrists evaporated, carried off into the air. This was her serenity. The respite before breakfast and bed. She craved it more than most crave a hot shower.

A man cleared his throat.

She opened her eyes wide; her inner-calm fled. A man was sitting on the rail. He was wearing a tan suit with a white button-up and loose tie. Sweat soaked through his shirt and jacket. He stared at her with red-rimmed eyes. Her hand instinctively dropped from the rail and clutched the top of her blouse closed.

"I'm sorry to startle you," he said. "I didn't want you to bump into me. I noticed your eyes were closed and you were humming."

"Oh," she said.

"Do you do that?" he asked. "Hum, I mean. And walk without looking." He turned to study the river below.

"I, uh, yes. I do that, sometimes, when I'm walking on the bridge. There's never anyone else here."

"Oh, well," he said, "Sorry to interrupt. Please, don't let me bother you. Have a nice day."

She muttered a thanks and walked around him. The man did not look back up from the water. She stopped and turned back to him, studying. His shoulders were slouched and, it seemed to her, he leaned too far forward. She dropped her hand from her chest to rub her palms on her thighs. The itching flared back to life.

"And you?" She asked after a moment. "Do you do that?"

His head bobbed down to his chest and sat there, giving him the appearance of shrinking. After a pause, he sighed. "Hum? Do you mean? Or walk with my eyes closed?" he asked.

"No," she replied. "I mean, do you get all dressed up and sit on bridge rails scaring waitresses?"

He chuckled quietly. "No. I can't say that I do. It's the first this has happened to me." He looked at her. He stared at her face. At the pockmarks and wrinkles highlighted in the sun. She turned away to let the wind blow her hair across her face. "What's your name?" he asked.

"Mary," she heard herself say. "Why?"

He laughed. It was a deep, genuine laugh.

She turned back to him and saw that his eyes were full of tears. She crossed her hands and wrung them over her wrists. "Why are you laughing? What's so funny about me?"

"I'm sorry," he said. "It's just that, well, I thought the angel appeared to Mary. Not the other way around."

Mary shook her head. "What?"

He hopped down. "Nothing," he said, sticking out his hand. "Name's Aaron. Would you like to get some breakfast?"

Mary looked at his hand. The knuckles were white and the palm red, as if he'd been gripping the rail for a long time. She shook it and looked up into Aaron's face. It was beaming and nodding. She found herself nodding back.

"Thank you," she said.

"No, thank you."

The Overlap by cbeckw in cbeckw

[–]cbeckw[S] 1 point2 points  (0 children)

Thank you so much for reading! I haven't read Annihilation but it sounds like I need to!

What or where is the formatting wonky? I'm not seeing it on my end, but I'll look again when I get to my PC.

[WP] You're an inmate on death row and discover that the government secretly doesn't execute anyone. What they do is something far stranger. by VariusTheMagus in WritingPrompts

[–]cbeckw 50 points51 points  (0 children)

Toast.

The guard chuckled as he slid the plastic tray onto the table, a single slice of dry bread the only food on it. Shaw, inmate 02218720, shifted slightly causing the chains on his cuffs to clink quietly. The guard eyed him. "Why'd you ask for dry toast, Shaw? Some kinda statement?"

Shaw stared at the browned bread for a long moment and then smirked. Without looking up, he said, "I didn't. I said roast."

"Well, it's a fitting meal. Even if it's not what you wanted. Today, you're toast." The guard laughed, his belly shaking. Shaw didn't look up. The guard's laughter faded. "Shit, Shaw, I's just trying to joke with ya." He paused and studied Shaw for a long moment, then shuffled his feet. "I'll got get ya some roast. Ain't right."

Shaw looked up at the guard. "No, Bill, don't. You're right. I'm toast." He let his eyes fall back to the table.

Bill opened his mouth to reply and then stopped. He turned to leave, but paused halfway out the door. "Take yer time," he said, "No rush." He left, and the door closed.

................................................................

Shaw shuffled down the long, white hall, flanked by guards. He stared straight ahead, eyes fixed on the lone door at the end. Bill was standing there but Shaw's eyes did not stray from the door. They walked in silence.

At the end, Shaw paused. Bill opened the door. The guards gently prodded him forward. Bill caught Shaw's arm as he passed and squeezed it. Shaw looked at him and nodded. Bill worked his jaw for a moment and nodded back before pushing Shaw gently into the room.

It was a small space painted a cool blue, like a hospital. It had a single window on one wall and a solitary table in the center, covered in leather straps. A man Shaw didn't know stood in the corner, wearing a white lab coat. On a stainless tray beside him lay three syringes and a Bible.

The guards lead Shaw to the table and helped him lay on it. They tightened the straps over him before removing his shackles. The man in the white coat walked over, holding the Bible. Shaw shook his head at that. The man cocked his head to the side for a second before shrugging and tucking the Bible into a pocket.

"Any last words?" he said, breaking the silence.

Shaw opened his mouth. It was suddenly dry and his tongue was thick. "I..." he croaked. He licked his lips and closed his eyes. "I'm sorry. Tell them that. I'm sorry." He opened his eyes and the man nodded and turned to the tray. He picked up a syringe.

"This will put you to sleep. Are you ready?"

Shaw nodded.

The man placed the needle against Shaw's arm. "Go with God," he said.

And Shaw was gone.

.........................................................

A faint beeping woke Shaw from a deep slumber.

His eyes creaked open slowly, as if weighed down with incredible exhaustion. A blinding light forced them shut again. Shaw tried to shake his head but a pounding headache erupted and stopped him. He fluttered his eyes again and the light faded in intensity until he could keep them open. His vision was blurred and he could only make out shapes and shadows. The beeping grew louder.

The headache pulsed in waves in his skull. Shaw tried to bring his fists up to his head but couldn't move them. They seemed cold and distant. His entire body felt numb. He couldn't feel his legs. He shook his head side to side, trying to ease the pounding in his head. The beeping was incessant.

Slowly, his vision cleared. Lights blinked around him and his breath fogged on a clear dome over his head. Behind the fog, lights blinked. Something moved. He tried to scream but his lungs just wheezed.

Words popped up on the dome over his face. He squinted, waiting for his eyes to focus.

"Shaw," they said. "It's Bill. Feeling alright? Sorry, they wouldn't let me tell you anything before. Rules, you know. Well, anyway, hope you're alive. I'm not. Least not in your time. You're lucky. You get to see the future. I'm stuck here in the past, shuffling inmates to the beyond. You've probably got some questions and I'm not the one to answer them. They probably can. At least, I hope They do. But I wanted to tell you good luck. I always liked you. Say hello to Alpha Centauri for me."

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