[The Game] Tempus Fuckit

Chapter 5

"Whether we listen with aloof amusement to the dreamlike mumbo jumbo of some red-eyed witch doctor of the Congo, or read with cultivated rapture thin translations from the sonnets of the mystic Lao-tse; now and again crack the hard nutshell of an argument of Aquinas, or catch suddenly the shining meaning of a bizarre Eskimo fairy tale: it will always be the one, shape-shifting yet marvelously constant story that we find, together with a challengingly persistent suggestion of more remaining to be experienced than will ever be known or told"

- Joseph Campbell, The Hero With A Thousand Faces.

Press Play

14th February, 37,023 BCE

A man stands at the water's edge, gazing down into the pool. There's a faint smell in the air - something he recognises - something sweet. His beard whips about in the wind, a gale whistling up the crack of his arse. The spring sun burns down on his head as he considers taking a drink from the water before him. Caution stays his fervour. The plant he ate has made him thirsty, but he knows what can happen when drinking something unknown. He saw another die violently after drinking from a vine plant. He glances left and right, then back down, the water rippling as a mote of dust lands on the shimmering surface. His mouth waters. And then, slowly, almost painfully, things begin to happen inside his head. He stares at his reflection. It stares back. Smiling. It winks.

The inside of his head seems to grind, cogs banging off each other, machine parts unused to contact screeching into life. Neurons fire, synapses sizzle. Deep in the centre of his head, a chemical is released. He lurches to one side, his legs buckling, his stomach heaving as hormones flood through him. He vomits. An urge, raw and uncontrollable rushes to the surface from somewhere inside. He raises his hand, looks at himself. At his reflection. The urge comes again. And then it happens.

He makes a sound. A sound with two sounds. He makes it again. He spontaneously laughs, revelling in what he has done. He points at his reflection - his reflection points at him. He giggles, jumps up and down, his beard flapping around. He makes the sound again, beginning to spin in circles, laughing uncontrollably, pointing, giggling, sniggering like a madman. He makes the sound again and laughs again. Sound, image and object connect. A technology is born. A weapon is made. The axis tilts. And nothing is ever the same.

Standing behind him, a woman with big, blue eyes and almost black hair flicks her fringe from her eyes and smiles. The slight scar on her forehead creases. Sighing, she looks over her shoulder, back to the man, takes a picture with what looks like a 19th century pocketwatch and then slips the contraption into her bra. And jumps.

14th February, 35,242 BCE

The woman with almost black hair looks distinctly unimpressed. He was supposed to return home with some food. Hours ago. Instead, he's covered in sweat, blood, bite marks and mud. There's no food. But there is a slightly glazed look on his face - like he's been at those mushrooms again. He gives her a sheepish expression. Shrugs.

She exhales, placing her hips on her hands, waiting. Staring at him. He thinks for a second, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. He scratches his arse. A look comes over his face. And then he starts.

He grunts twice, thrusting his thumb over his right shoulder. He walks on the spot, knees bobbing up and down, whistling as he goes. Suddenly, he jumps into the air, as though in terror. Dragging himself up to his full height, he raises his hands and takes the shape of giant, snarling animal, claws drawn. He bares his teeth, roaring, screams and starts furiously pumping his arms as though now sprinting for his very life. He keeps this up for a time, stealing glances at her to see how this is going over. She does nothing. He stops and waits, smiling weakly.

Carefully, methodically, she raises her two hands upwards, the backs of clenched fists showing to him. Slowly, she extends the middle fingers, standing, staring for what seems to him like all eternity. She flicks her hair as she spins on her heel and stalks into the cave.

The man sighs and lets his shoulders slump. His little song and dance - his story - has worked for now. Around him, the world twists as reality squirms to fit with his narrative. The axis tilts. And nothing is ever the same.

Valentine's Day, The Future

A doorbell rings. A man stands up, walks out of his living room and steps to the front door, pausing a moment. He glances at his watch. 3.52pm. He pulls the door open. A woman with blue eyes and almost black hair stands there. She smiles.
'I need to tell you a story' she says.
He looks at her. 'I'm sorry - have we met before?'
'Yes, you could say that. Can I come in?' she asks brightly.
'Uhm. I suppose you... sorry, where did we meet?'
'Not where - when' she says, fixing him with something between a stare and a smile.
'Okay...' he says.
'Let me help you' she says quietly, 'Back of a car. Depeche Mode. Nightclub. Black hat. Wink, wink...'
'Oh' he says slowly, a fleeting look of illumination passing over his face. 'Fuck. It's you then is it?'
'Yep' she says with a giggle. 'It is'
'You're late' he says matter-of-factly, placing his hands on his hips. 'And' he pauses to point a finger at her hand, 'you have a ring on your wedding finger'
'Yeah. Ehm. Sorry about that. It took a while to find your house.'
'Right'
'Anyway, what makes you so sure it's a wedding ring?'
He grins.
She laughs.
'They'll kill us if they catch us' he tells her.
'Yep, they will'.
They look at each other.
'Fuck it.' he says, 'Tempus Fuckit.'
'Indeed'
'How long do we have?' he asks.
'A few days' she says.
He nods. 'Think it'll be enough?'
She pauses, sniggers at him. 'Let's find out, shall we?'
The axis tilts. And nothing is ever the same.

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