Read The Hipster Who Leapt Through Time (The Hipster Trilogy Book 2) Online
Authors: Luke Kondor
The Hipster Who Leapt Through Time (The Hipster Trilogy Book 2)
To Oscar. The only inter-galactic cat I need in my life.
***
STRANGE THINGS ARE HAPPENING IN OUR CORNER OF THE UNIVERSE
An ancient space-being called Moomamu has awoken on a planet full of talking cats who want to kill him.
A talk-show host is about to become the next big story.
An Alien Technician has a job to do — one that involves killing human children.
Children across the world are waking up with psychic powers.
A tired Polish immigrant is about to find herself saving the world again.
And a ginger cat called Gary is the only one who knows anything about anything.
“We choose to go to the moon in this decade and do the other things, not because they are easy, but because they are hard, because that goal will serve to organise and measure the best of our energies and skills, because that challenge is one that we are willing to accept, one we are unwilling to postpone, and one which we intend to win.”
John F. Kennedy
“Tell a man that there a four hundred billion stars and he’ll believe you. Tell him a bench has wet paint and he has to touch it.”
Steven Wright
Picture this.
Waves of bleached white dirt and patches of grass, a cloudless sky, and a man in rags wandering alone. His footsteps leave a trail in the sand behind him.
The rags are brown leather, beaten and weathered, and cover most of his body, other than his naked, shoeless feet. The bare skin aching each time he presses his feet into the sun-baked floor. Behind him, miles of mostly nothing. Some settlements with a few houses. A man selling ice cream. Some bleached-in-the-sun-white dog-shit, and a fat old American woman trying to give him change.
“No thanks,” he says as he waves her off.
He doesn’t need it. He isn’t homeless. The universe is his home. This place, though, is somewhere he’s visited more times than he cares to count. He’s returned for every launch. Each time he watches the events which are about to occur and hopes it won’t happen all over again — the end of the world.
He winces as the pain on his bare feet pops. A blister. Doesn’t matter. Not too far now. A tall hill waits in front of him. It is just at the top.
He removes the hood and pulls it back, revealing his dusty grey and brown hair, long and down to his shoulders. His beard, matching in colour, covers his chest where his hair doesn’t. His face is wrinkled and warped from the travel. Tired eyes. Deep creases. Crusty lips. He uses the back of his hand to wipe away the sweat gathering above his eyes. He has the face of a vagabond, and smells like one too. The poorly cared for body of a man who has learned to sleep on any surface. The broken organs of a man who’s drunk too much, from too many different planets, breathed in the air of too many different atmospheres.
With each step further up the hill, his heart accelerates a notch or two.
“Okay,” he says in a voice like he’s been eating tree bark. “Let’s take a look-see.”
One more step and the blue horizon of the sea comes into view. To his right, a sign that reads ‘Cape Canaveral’. He wipes the clumped-up dust from his eyes and looks to the skies. The vessel is already scarring a line of white and fire in the deep blue hue of the atmosphere.
He drops to his knees and reaches into the fabric satchel hanging from his side. It’s a couple of threads away from falling apart. He pulls out his notebook, places it on the floor in front of him, grabs a bottle of water and unscrews the lid.
He drinks and watches as the vessel disappears and the line of white fades away. A clear blue sky. Something to be appreciated.
He lies down on his back. As he bakes in the sun, turning golden brown like a good pie, he thinks back… wait, isn’t that forward? Regardless, he thinks of the cat.
“I forgive you,” he says. “I forgive you.”
Nisha Bhatia
FIVE. THE LIGHTS WERE ON, a wash of yellow heat directed at Nisha, bringing out the makeup she’d been plastered in by the crew. Just enough to cover the bags beneath her eyes. Just enough to hide the hangover.
Four. The autocue was ready. A square of words to feed into her brain to take the thinking out of the it.
Three. The guest to her left was nervous. Beads of sweat ran down his forehead. He loosened his shirt collar. Coughed into his hand.
Two. A drop leapt from the guest’s chin, landed on the slide of skin beneath his throat and disappeared into the black hole of his open collar.
One. Her stomach turned at the thought of the salty fluids finding the man’s chest hair. Surely a clement forest of dark and grey. She winced, looked off camera, forced herself to think of something else. The thought of the red wine she’d drunk the night before came to her mind and she hiccupped. She needed to stop everything, hold on, give herself some fresh air. Just a quick breather—
Too late.
It’s go time.
“Hello. You’re watching
The Good Morning TV Show
with me, Nisha Bhatia.” She ran on auto-pilot. The words fell from her mouth as easily as alcohol found its way in. She smiled, all-pearly-whites, cheeks to the ceiling, and made sure to look at the right camera. Easy. The red light marked the spot. “Welcome back. I hope you had a chance to grab a cup of tea and a bit of brekkie. In the last segment, we got to meet Barry and his dog, Susan — the record-breaking Great Dane, the biggest dog in the country.” None of her own words. All from the autocue. “Can I just say, somebody should talk to that dog: she was backstage demanding treats. You could say, she was being a big you-know-what.”
That last bit wasn’t on the autocue. Improv. Not her strong point. She laughed at her own joke anyway. She couldn’t leave it hanging.
She saw the twenty-plus crew members hiding behind the wall of equipment, dancing in the darkness, never smiling, always working. If she did catch a smile from one of them it was likely to be a smile at her expense for saying something stupid on-air. Like just then.
She looked over to her next guest. A thuggish man who’d killed people in the desert and written a book about it because it had made him feel bad. She laughed a little louder until he joined in with his own faux-chuckle.
“And now I’m joined by my guest — soldier, writer, warrior, Alan Whitman.” She turned to him. “How are you doing today, Alan?”
Nisha forced her eyes to stay on his, but she found her focus dropping to the sweaty open collar again. She tried to stop, to keep on the blue circles of his eyes. Wandering even a millimetre would look huge on the camera. The hundreds of viewers drinking their tea, eating their toast, would look at her roaming eyes and think she was aloof or disinterested, which is a big no-no for daytime TV presenting.
