Title: Comes From Some Other Beginning's End (Part II)
Featuring: The Forsaken
Date: August 15th, 2012
Location: Here, and there.

The year is 1942. The place? Somewhere in the Atlantic Ocean. Where, exactly? Uhh…the ocean’s kind of a big place, kid. And who are you to ask me shit, anyway? I’m telling you what’s going on. I’m in charge here. Not the other way around. You don’t come into my muthafuckin’ house and play me like that, son. Do I look like a bitch to you? I’ve gone upside a ho’s head with my caps and busted glocks for my homie’s dog, yo. I’m hardcore like that video of Katterina Wylde I found online earlier.

That’s right. I’m so hardcore I go old school trash talk in a storyline-driven roleplay. I also heard Thug roC’s mother was a woman of questionable morals. Come at me, bro.

So, yeah, we’re somewhere in the fucking Atlantic during World War II. If you need to MapQuest or Google Maps or whatever it is you kids do on the computer nowadays, let’s just say it’s Latitude 13, Longitude -2. You’re not buying that, are you? What do you mean, those coordinates would put us somewhere in Burkina Faso? How do you even know that’s a place? I had to Wikipedia that shit just now to make sure you weren’t messing with my head.

Look, all you need to know is we’ve got some explosions coming up, probably giant fighting robots, and maybe even a dinosaur or something, because why the fuck not just go full Michael Bay on this one? It’ll be just like watching Pearl Harbor. No, wait. It’s gonna be more like any of the Transformers movies. No, wait. It’ll be exactly like The Island. There we go.

The preceding paragraph has been sponsored by Microsoft’s Xbox 360. The new, improved Xbox 360: Are you tired of the Red Ring of Death that has plagued gamers since the dawn of consoles? With the new Xbox 360 Super Elite, those Red Rings will more or less be a thing of the past. Sporting a failure rate of less than 45%, the Xbox 360 Super Elite redefines gaming all over again.

Speaking of gaming, have you guys tried that Crunchwrap Supreme over at Taco Bell? It’s so good, I can’t believe it’s not beef!™ And while we’re on the topic, have you ever noticed that sometimes your everyday laundry detergent isn’t keeping your whites their whitest? I have, and that’s when I turn to Tide, the most racist laundry detergent they’ll allow on TV.

And speaking of turning the tide, somewhere in the Atlantic Ocean, sometime during 1942, a U.S. submarine and its crew are riding high on another victory over German ships. Since simply delivering an unspeakable beating and letting their adversaries run off to lick their wounds is not, nor has ever been, nor ever will be the American Way, the Little Sub That Could decides to go all Nagasaki on one escaping vessel and give chase.

“If there’s one thing I can’t stand,” he says gruffly, exhaling a puff of smoke, “it’s a man that picks a fight and then runs away.”

Optimus Christpuncher. Not his real name, obviously. It’s said he changed his name because the original was so epic that simply combining the two words together in speech would circumcise God himself. This is the least awesome name he was legally allowed to adopt. Christpuncher is your archetypal strongman tough guy, with a crotchety exterior and meaty, calloused bear paws that have seen more than their fair share of scraps. But when you look into his eyes…I don’t know…you see something in them. And those hands; so rough, yet when he touches you, you feel like you’re the only girl in the world. It’s enough to give someone the vapors.

Sorry, where was I? Oh, yeah.

And he’s smoking. Always smoking. In a submarine. That’s like strangling yourself with your own umbilical cord, except there’s a bunch of other babies in there, too, and you’re just Chris Benoiting every single one of them along with you. But don’t tell him that. A superior officer once lectured him on that very thing, and Christpuncher choked him to death with his own words. Like, literally the words themselves. It was a haunting spectacle for everyone that witnessed it.

“Christpuncher!”

Captain Kirkwood R. Unche. Some call him Captain Krunche behind his back, an allusion to his no-nonsense demeanor and willingness to win at any cost. Others call him Captain Kirk for laughs, but no one gets the joke. He’s the same grizzled veteran you see in every war film, a little grey before his time and hard on his troops, but admirable nonetheless.

“We need you at your post, pronto!” The Captain barks the order, but Christpuncher barely moves, merely shifting position while leaning against a nearby wall.

His cigarette moves from one side of his mouth to the other, gently brushing his lips like the tender caress of a priest’s trustworthy finger. Probably grateful for neither being ten years old or Catholic, Christpuncher grunts, “I am.”

The two men lock eyes, and suddenly it’s like the Wild West. A tumbleweed bounces along between them and everything. But just when it looks like things are about to escalate, a nervous Private breaks the silence.

“Sir! We’ve detected several enemy ships on our radar. They weren’t there a minute ago, but,” he pauses, then swallows hard, “it appears that we’re surrounded.”

The Captain’s demeanor doesn’t change, but he breaks eye contact nonetheless and begins commanding his troops. “Christpuncher, we’re gonna need you on torpedoes! I want an ETA on friendlies. We may have to fight our way out of this one.”

“About damn time we got ourselves into a real fight.” Just like the Captain, his demeanor doesn’t change, but the promise of a battle seems to intrigue Christpuncher enough to send him back to his post.

“Sir, with all due respect, how the hell did they get the drop on us? There was no one on our screens before,” the young Private asks, causing the Captain to sigh heavily as he sits back against his chair, resting a hand on a large, stylized box next to him.

“I have no idea,” he responds, the detailed engravings in silver adorning the otherwise pitch-black box, “but I think it has something to do with this thing.”

He’d known back then it was a bad idea to take it with them. Board the enemy ship, steal the next-generation Enigma machine, then blow everything else to high hell. That was the mission. But there was something about that box that called to him. He couldn’t just leave it there, but what was it? In all the time since, he hadn’t been able to figure out how the damn thing worked or even what it was. It was frustrating, and he felt it would only bring bad luck to his ship and crew, but at the same time he couldn’t help but sense it was something of great importance…

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Grandma: The word is “niggardly.”

We’re back in present time and holy shit did I just walk in on racism? Wait, there’s a D in there. We’re cool. Everything’s cool.

Clyde: Can…can you use it in a sentence?

Grandma: That niggard is sure acting niggardly, wouldn’t you agree?

I can’t help but feel that’s a little fucked up, but whatever. I wouldn’t teach a young child or retard words that could get them killed if pronounced wrong, or, hell, even right, but that’s your prerogative, lady. That’s why you’re the grandma here and I’m not.

Clyde: Um…

Clyde hesitates, understandably, like a desperate virgin standing at the gates of manhood which exist between two thighs with more ripples in them than a bag of Lay’s. But just like all those before him, he, too, chooses to take the plunge.

Clyde: N…i….g…g…e…

Before he can get me into a lot of trouble for spelling out the rest of the word, Clyde is interrupted by a makeshift bell. Grandma West turns off the alarm and motions for Clyde to stand up from his desk.

Grandma: The elocution lesson for today has come to an end. Class will commence tomorrow at the scheduled time.

As she begins to tidy up her own teacher’s desk and wipe down the blackboard behind it, Shirley excuses Clyde from the “classroom.” He excitedly grabs his books and runs to the doorway to the living room, his classroom being just adjacent to it and, in fact, is pretty much just a study with an extra desk dragged in. When he crosses the threshold, James is there waiting for him.

James: About time. I still find it kind of fucked up that she won’t let me wait in there, or that any of this even happens.

Clyde: Grammy says it’s important to learn how to say things good. It’s what separates us from the mud races.

James: Yeah, you might not want to repeat too much of what “Grammy” says to anyone else. Oh, shit. I think she heard me.

Suddenly walking toward the two, Shirley West maintains eye contact with James the entire time.

Grandma: Clyde, dear, since you’re doing so well in your lessons as of late, I’ve decided to reward you with this new thing they’re calling a “videogame.” The church is giving them away for free, so that all of God’s children can witness what is wrong with our world and correct it.

She then, still looking at James, produces a game case from her purse. On the front in big bold letters are the words “Niggar Hero” emblazoned over a picture of Lil Jon.

Grandma: I want you to play this game and mark down every grammatical error you find in each song. At the end of the week, you’ll give an oral presentation and be graded based on your findings.

Clyde looks excited because he’s a moron and doesn’t recognize simple shit like this, Grandma West just keeps looking straight at James as she passes by, and James looks fucking horrified because he’s not an ancient racist or retarded.

Clyde: Hells to the yeah! Learning’s fun!

Clyde rushes downstairs, while James just keeps standing in place, in utter disbelief of what he’s just seen happen. After several long moments, he finally gathers his wits and slowly starts walking downstairs, hearing god-awful music and Clyde saying shit like “yeah, yeah, boooyeeee!”

Clyde: I’m combing my hurr while I’m living like a sturr!

“Congratulations! You butchered the English language! 10,000 points.”

James: That’s fucking it.

James has finally had enough, and ejects the game meant to set black people back eighty years from the new and improved Xbox 360 Super Elite. Stepping on the disk and at one time fighting both racism and terrible fucking music like Drake and T-Pain, James then turns his attention to Clyde.

James: That’s just plain unacceptable. If there’s one thing I’ve learned from living on the streets, it’s that everyone’s equal, and I won’t have some racist old woman teach you any different. Hardship doesn’t see color. Injustice doesn’t see color. Pain doesn’t see color. But for some reason, all of us see it and are obsessed with it, like that’s what sets us apart. That’s what makes us different. You wanna know what makes us different? Our personalities! Our experiences as individuals. Our color doesn’t make us different; that’s just a small part of what someone is, not who they are. I’m less like you, a white man, than a black man who shares similar interests with me, but we’re expected to behave like color is what binds us when the chips are down?

He shakes his head, pausing for a moment and then continuing.

James: No, I don’t believe that. Not after what I’ve seen. White men and black men, huddled together for warmth in the winter. They could just as easily stay with what we tell them is their own kind, but they choose to exist and survive alongside people society says are different from them. People they’re each supposed to laugh at when some comedian thinks he can tackle race issues for a few chuckles, or who they’re supposed to turn against when someone of their own race says something the other side doesn’t agree with. No, what truly binds people together isn’t some fabricated bullshit like brotherhood by way of skin color. It’s humanity that brings us together. Basic needs and desires, worked toward by people with common goals of all races, religions, and genders. But we feel the need to overcomplicate things, and separate each group from every other so that no one ever really feels equal.

Now pacing, James turns to face Clyde, looking him dead in the eye.

James: I lost friends out there. You lose friends all the time, and it’s just something you have to get used to. And now I realize that’s not just true out on the streets, but everywhere. We all lose people we love, people we care about…hell, even people we just kind of tolerate. We lose these people all the time, so why do we insist on losing people we don’t even know yet? There’s so much loss already in the world, and so much to gain by humanity being united, but we don’t seem to want that. Much like society’s obsession with the end of the world seems to grow each year, it now looks as if we’ve taken to pushing ourselves in the path of destruction rather than wait for it. We force each other’s hand at every turn, maybe not even out of hatred or fear anymore, but for the sickening need to see this world in flames. We hate those we should love, and rather than look for salvation we hungrily crave damnation. But not me, and sure as hell not you anymore. I have tasted a dick of every color, and they tasted equal!

James finally finishes, and an astonished Clyde just sits speechless for a moment. That’s gotta be the most dialogue I’ve given James ever. And because of that, he gets the slow clap. No, not from me. From Clyde.

Clyde: I never knew you felt so strongly. From now on, I pledge to you, no more suffrage! I’ll stop going to my electrocution lessons and then I’ll tell Grammy our church should let that nice Johnson family that just moved in next door come to Mass sometime.

James: I think you meant segregation, not suffrage. And holy shit, they still do that here?

Clyde: Grammy said suffrage was bad, too.

Speaking of Grammy, her voice can suddenly be heard from upstairs, seemingly talking to someone except no voice responds.

James: Jesus…is she talking to herself?

Clyde: She needs constant human attention or she does that.

James: Well, I’m not gonna give it to her.

Clyde: Me neither. Maybe we could buy a person.

James: You…you mean like slavery? Because we were just over this.

Clyde: Then I’m fresh out of ideas. You wanna just kill her and bury her in the backyard, then collect her pension checks until someone gets wise?

Kinda.

James: Kinda.

Clyde: Really? ‘Cause I was just joking.

Oh, yeah…me, too…

James: Just saying, those pension checks are pretty juicy. You can buy a lot of paint thinner and a lot of socks with that kind of dough.

He does make a good point, Clyde. I say take the deal.

Clyde: James, I’ve been thinking.

Clyde’s tone suddenly changes to a more somber one. James notices and almost immediately stops whispering “do it.” Almost immediately.

Clyde: Our lives turned out pretty messed up, didn’t they?

James: You could say that. Why?

Clyde: Well, what if they’d turned out differently? What if we didn’t end up here, but somewhere else? Somewhere better.

James sighs, smirking slightly, and puts a hand on Clyde’s shoulder.

James: I’ve found it best not to worry about these things. The past is the past, and there’s nothing you can do to change it.

Clyde: …But what if you could?

James: What…what are you getting at here?

Suddenly, the room seems to darken, and all the sound drains from the atmosphere. Clyde leans in closer, his face shadowed in a sinister way.

Clyde: As you may well know, I’m the owner of a time machine.

James: I was not. Please continue.

Clyde: What you may not know, however, is I built a second time machine as a replacement for the first if it ever broke down. Anyway, long story short, they don’t break. So for the past several years, I’ve been selling my replacement time machine for seven dollars, then going back in time to before I sold it…

James: …So you keep both the money and the time machine. Dear lord, I follow your logic. It’s retarded, but it’s there and I saw it.

Clyde: Well, I just thought of something. Our troubles all started at one specific point, and if I can go back and fix that, maybe I can fix our lives and change what’s happened to us.

James: What are you talking about? What point?

Clyde: Hmm…the temporal loop must have excluded you from being aware of any changes I made in the past.

Clyde ponders for a moment, then poses a question.

Clyde: Like, remember that time I went back to try and get Hitler’s DNA in order to clone him in the future, raise him as my own, then send him back to do battle with himself and stop the Holocaust?

James: Doesn’t even begin to ring a bell.

Clyde: Didn’t think so. Well, I made one fatal error: tripping on my way out of the time machine and spilling his man-goo all over the floor. But this time it’ll be different. This time I’ll…see it cumming.

Clyde puts on a pair of sunglasses, but nothing happens.

Clyde: Hey, where’s my ‘YEEEEEAAAAAAHHHHH’?

James: They canceled that like four months ago. Don’t you use the internet?

Clyde: I’m more concerned with the fact you do. But that’s not the point. The point is I’m going to change our pasts, beginning before we were even born.

James: You don’t want to know what I’ve had to do for Wi-Fi…

Clyde: What?

James: So how are you going to change what you couldn’t already?

Clyde: Just a sec. I want to know what you did to be able to read up on CBS.com and why you did it. You could’ve done literally anything else, but your first impulse was to see how your favorite shows were fairing.

James: We both going back this time? Or maybe you’ll clone yourself and send each copy back at slightly different times to maximize your chances of success?

Clyde: Oh, I see. We’re going this route. Fine, then. I’ll pretend you didn’t give Steve Jobs a mustache ride to use his iPad for twenty minutes.

James: Steve Jobs is dead.

Clyde: HOW DO YOU KNOW THESE THINGS?!

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“Sir! We have intercepted a message from a nearby German sub,” the panicked Private basically screams out.

The Captain shows no emotion, save for a little annoyance due to the fact that one of his men is acting like a fucking pussy. “We didn’t intercept shit. They wanted us to hear it, now let me hear it.”

“Hallo, mein American friend,” a cheerful German voice pipes through the submarine’s speaker system, “I believe zhere ees zumtink you have zhat belongs to us. Eef you return eet, no problem. Eef not…problem.”

“Well, boys,” the Captain shouts, a smirk crossing his lips. “It looks like we have ourselves a problem.”

Back in the torpedo bay, Christpuncher loads one in with gusto. “And I think I just found us the solution.”

On both sides, American and German, captains of each ship notice the other taking offensive position and issue the same command: “FIRE!”

The surrounding German ships all launch torpedoes their way, while the single American vessel braces for impact. Sitting in his chair, ready to go down with the ship, the Captain absentmindedly brushes his hand over the top of the box he’s willing to die for, when suddenly and unbeknownst to him or anyone else, the engraved markings begin to light up. Before the torpedoes can hit, a spark of electricity shoots through the submarine, short-circuiting the electronics and subduing several crew members in the process.

“Sir!” the Private shouts once more, “Our aft is about to be hit on the bow!”

“What?!” the Captain shouts back at the nonsensical report, and turns around in time to see a swirling white glow in the middle of the ship, where both ends of the submarine end up existing in the same spot at the same time. Without any time to comprehend what’s happening, a second flash erupts as the torpedoes make contact with the ship and detonate.

And with that, everything goes dark.
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