The Time Machine Did It

by John Swartzwelder

It's important to have that layer of fat. You can't have guys hitting you in your muscles all the time.

I’ve been told by people that I’m shaped kind of like a garbage can, but I don’t know if that’s the truth, or just some kind of an insult.

I had pictures on the walls of me posing with clues, getting yelled at by the mayor, and so on.

On another wall was a sign that said "DO IT TOMORROW". I got it cheap because it's bad advice.

Solving crimes is hard tedious work. It's not for everybody. But I am a hard tedious guy.

It’s said that the first person who raises a hand in violence is the person who’s run out of ideas. That’s usually me. I run out of ideas fast. Violence I’ve got plenty of.

They beat me for a little longer, then tried out various truth serums on me. ”Which truth serum tastes better?” asked one. “It's hard to say,” I said. “They're both so awful. This one, I guess.” “He's lying, Lieutenant.”

Scratching my head made pieces of it come off and reminded me that I needed some bandages for about 90% of my body.

“Turds for sale!” he shouted. “I've got turds!”

He said he didn't know anything about any time machine. He said I should ask H.G. Wells. I wrote down the name.

But friendly warnings aren’t always as friendly as they sound. That night I wrote the word "yikes" in my diary.

If this story was true, it was alarming. I asked if it was true. They said it was. This was alarming.

I was sleeping like a baby – waking up every three hours screaming and crapping my pants.

The only time escape was a possibility was when the doctor came in twice a week to administer additional drugs to me and slap me around a little. I hoped I might get a chance to overpower him, but he had a lot of experience in places like this and didn’t even let me get close to him. He administered the drugs using a nine foot needle, and slapped me with a glove on a pole.

I was back to normal physically in a day or two, but I was still angry for another week.

Somebody had been doing some major league tampering to my car. The brake lines were cut. The tires were on fire. There was carbon monoxide coming out of everything. And the radio was tuned to a station I didn’t like.

Inside was a very sophisticated looking machine that looked like a cross between a computer and something else, maybe another computer.

Then I remembered something that had gotten me out of a lot of tight spots before – hysteria. It might work in this situation. I would give it a try.

It has always amazed me how angry people can get at my stupidity.

So the machine hadn't actually propelled me forward in time, it had just knocked me out for most of the day. A hammer could have done that.

I'm not paying you for this. Do they have a Better Business Bureau in this time period?” He hesitated for a moment, moved sideways to the left to block my view of something, then said no, there wasn't one.

“Mr. Jorgenson doesn't bullshit customers unless he absolutely has to. That's a credo he lives by.”

One money making idea I had during this period promised to be a gold mine for me. I wrote out motion picture scripts that were word for word transcriptions of successful films I had seen in the 1990's, then shipped them off to Hollywood and sat back to wait for the checks to come rolling in. All the scripts were returned to me, with rejection slips that said they stunk to high heaven. I read the scripts again and they did! This made me mad on several levels.

The food didn't have any preservatives or vitamins in it, so it had a pleasant, dangerous taste that was new to me.

He said if I didn't do what he wanted he would horsewhip me. I asked where he was going to get a horsewhip at this time of day? All the horsewhip stores were closed.

But the thing people should know about me when they swear me to secrecy is that I don't have a good memory. The first thing I forget is that it's a secret. The second thing I forget is who told me this secret. The third and final thing I forget is the secret itself. So if you tell me something in the strictest secrecy, you're guaranteeing that eventually everyone in the world will know this secret except me.

I won't bore you with a full account of my adventures through time and space because I know you are primarily interested in the crime solving aspects of this case. You are a student of criminology. And I respect you for that.

The cops caught up to me at Ford's Theater. When they drew their guns and started to shoot, I ducked behind Abe Lincoln. Now, I know what you’re going to say: faux pas. I won’t deny it.