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Welcome to Percotran -Part XXXVI

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Welcome to Percotran -Part XXXVI
By: Richard Davidson on 3/22/2003; 5:28 PM

Alexander turned to face the front again, and saw a tiny island below, rapidly rising up to meet them. They were taking the wrong trajectory, Alexander surmised, and it appeared they would be crashing into thick jungle any moment.

He was wrong, of course. Sure, they crashed through the tops of some tall trees, but they landed beautifully, on an inland freshwater lake.

“I didn’t see that island a few seconds ago,” noted Alexander.

“You just weren’t looking for it,” answered the great whale.

The pelting ice was making its way through some of the trees, and then Alexander felt a vague shock, as if the ground all around them were trembling.

The sheet of flying ice began receding, and it was then that Alexander had an amazing thought.

“We’re moving!”

“And fast, too,” noted the big sea creature, as the scenery folded up, and became a blur.

“This is inter-dimensional travel. We’re moving in time and space simultaneously.”

“Cool.”

“Yes, I suppose it is,” mused the whale.

“I could explain it to you,” he went on, “in such a manner as to give you complete understanding, but it would probably leave you in a catatonic daze for about a week.”

Alexander wasn’t so sure that was a bad idea, but he would take the beast’s word, for the time being.

“We weren’t moving fast enough to outrun the ice storm, so the island compensated by moving back in time as it was moving forward in space.”

“How far back did we go?” Alexander asked, awed.

About three weeks.

Three weeks! That’s about how long he’d been here, near as he could tell.

“Can we go back to the precise moment when I arrived here?”

“Where?” asked the puzzled aquatic mammal.

“Not here; Percotran.”

“I’m not following you at all.”

“Look,” Alexander thought out clearly and patiently, “Look, if we can get the island positioned near to the time and place of my arrival, we could intercept me, and stop a number of events from happening.”

“You want to meet yourself from three weeks ago?” asked the whale, who found it was now his turn to be amazed.

“Why would you want to do that?”

Alexander began to explain again, but Leviticus cut him off.

“Besides, we’re way past that.”

“Oh?” asked Alexander.

“How far?”

“We’re about five thousand years in the past.”

“Oh.”

Then Alexander asked the obvious question.

“Is it safe here?”

“I don’t know. But we won’t be here long.”

Up a small path, in a clearing, there was a bamboo hut that Alexander would definitely call “Polynesian themed.” Leviticus nodded towards it.

“Go on in, and have a drink,” he advised Alexander.

The hut was filled with people, Alexander could see, as he made his way closer. He could also hear the sounds of general subdued revelry. The Polynesian theme of the bamboo hut gave Alexander a feeling of calm. He was very curious about this place.

“What’dllya have?” boomed the enormous bartender.

“Do you have beer?” asked Alexander.

“Do we have beer? Ah ha ha ha ha ha!” he laughed, and many of the patrons laughed along with him. The bartender turned to an obviously drunk Sqakri, and jovially repeated “Do we have beer, he asks!”

“Well do you?” asked Alexander.

“Uh, no.”

“No beer.” said Alexander flatly.

“Never heard of it.”

“Well, it’s kind of like an Ale, made from barley, hops and malts and fermented; never mind.”

The bartender laughed again.

“I think our boy’s talkin’ about Fujawi!”

“Fujawi!” called out several patrons, “Fujawi!”

Two men at a back table shouted out a very short poem about Fujawi, and then sat down abruptly.

“I’ll have a Fujawi,” said Alexander, confident he was ordering the right drink.

“Sorry, we don’t serve that here,” said the bartender, serious.

“Well what do you have?” Alexander asked, seeing this was going nowhere.

“Just about anything ya’d like,” the bartender said, with a grim smile.

“Just give me what he’s having,” Alexander said wearily, indicating the Sqakri.

“You want a glass of fermented bug juice?” asked the surprised bartender.

“Uh, no. Make it what HE’s having.”

This time, Alexander was careful to indicate someone from his own species.

“A Whiskey Seven it is,” said the bartender, pouring some pink, bubbly fluid in a tube, “that’ll be 45 Hiahihis, or did you want to start a tab?”

“Look, I’ve got to be honest with you,” Alexander leaned in just a bit, “I don’t even know what a Hiahihi is.”

“Then you’ll probably want to run a tab,” said the bartender, with a wink.

“I’m glad to see you still have pianos,” Alexander said, absent-mindedly.

“What’s a piano?” asked the bartender.

“One of those,” said Alexander, pointing to the piano.

“Oh, is that what you call those things. I don’t suppose you know what it’s for?”

“You don’t know what a piano is for?” Alexander was confused, “and yet you have one?”

“I know,” said a mildly intoxicated patron, “it’s for making music on.”

“What’s music?” asked the bartender.

“You gotta be kiddin’ me,” said the patron.

Alexander walked over to the early 20th century style upright piano, lifted the lid, and without even checking to see if it was in tune, began playing “Maple Leaf Rag,” by Scott Joplin.

He’d only gotten a few bars into it when a man put his hand across some of the keys, from A to G flat, two octaves higher, which contained many keys Alexander found useful for the piece. Alexander had never seen such a big hand.

“Didn’t you see the sign?” asked the bouncer, pointing to a sign on the wall, on the other side of the room that said “No ragtime.”

“I thought the bartender didn’t know what music is,” protested Alexander.

“Ragtime isn’t music,” the portly bouncer informed him.

“In that case, ladies and gentlemen, I will play something from the vast songbook of Reginald Dwight. Please tip your bartenders and waitresses.”

“Drink Dispenser, what’s a bartender?” the first patron asked the bartender, who only shrugged his shoulders.

“What’s a lady?” asked the curious Sqakri, hiccuping.

“What’s a tip?” a woman asked her companion.

“Who is Reginald Dwight?” asked another.

As Alexander started to play “Bennie and the Jets,” the bouncer stopped him again.

“Reginald Dwight is Elton John,” he said, pointing to the sign again.

It was the exact same sign, but now it said “No Elton John.”

Alexander smiled. Obviously, he was dreaming again. Since that was the case, he began playing the intro to Lynyrd Skynyrd’s version of “Call me the Breeze,” and was fully expecting the sign to say “no Honky Tonk,” but instead, many of the bar’s patrons began dancing.

Alexander improvised on the song’s theme for awhile, and since things were going so well, he began singing it.

Everyone in the room stopped, except for the bouncer, who had his hand across the keys again.

“What was that thing you were doing, making that horrible noise with your mouth?” he demanded.

“Singing?” Alexander said, puzzled once more.

“Well don’t do it again. If you want to play that excellent tribal music some more, that’s fine with me, but no Ragtime, no Elton John, and NO SINGING!” he ended with a shout, indicating the morphing sign.

Alexander knew enough Honky Tonk to keep playing for a couple of hours, and everyone was having a great time, himself included. In fact, they were having such a good time, that no one noticed they had begun moving forward in time once again.

“Thanks for showing us what a Piano is for,” said the bartender, who’d walked over and put his hand on Alexander’s shoulder, “the drinks are on me tonight.”

“I’m much obliged,” said Alexander, standing up, and walking slowly to the door.

“I always thought it was for this,” said the bartender, who sat down at the piano, and began playing Mozart with a level of dexterity and emotion Alexander had never heard before.

“Don’t let ‘em play with your head, time traveler,” came the voice of the intoxicated patron at the bar, as Alexander shook his head, and made his way out into the sweet night air.

That was good advice. This world was scary and new to Alexander, and all the locals were quite aware of it. They certainly had been playing with his head, and not just a little, either, he surmised.

Suddenly, from a tree up above, a monkey with a burnt metal head jumped to the ground in front of him.

“I been lookin’ for ya, matey, that I have,” it said.

Alexander was sure this had to be a dream, and stayed completely calm.

“Do I know you? I think I would recall being on a first name basis with a monkey with a burnt metal head.”

“Don’t be cute, boy. I happen to know that you petitioned the government of this here island to make a brief stop in the Timeflow, and I also happen to know they granted your petition.”

“They did?” Alexander found this a curious piece of information to learn from a monkey with a burnt metal head, and really didn’t know what else to say.

“Aye, they did,” said the monkey with the burnt metal head, “and they’re takin’ you to the place you first showed up, not long before we first met.”

“Captain Pearson?” asked Alexander, recognizing the voice, finally.

“Aye, and I’m going back there with you, so I can get my good looks back.”

“You look fine,” lied Alexander.

“For a monkey with a burnt metal head, I guess, but not much else,” spat Captain Pearson.

“I’m curious,” said Alexander, “what burns metal?”

“Just a nuclear blast, that’s all,” answered the monkey/Captain/thing.

“I’m not even going to ask how you got on the monkey body.”

“Well, that’s a story in itself lad.”

“I’ll just bet it is,” mused Alexander, with a chill.

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