Time: Tomorrow, last month, next year, one hour from thirty minutes ago.
Location: Undisclosed bunker in the heart of the USA
“I don’t believe it.”
“You don’t have to believe it. It’s true. You just have to accept it.”
“But it’s unbelievable.”
“I just said you didn’t have to believe it. I wish you’d listen to me more.”
Blake Dynamite had managed to break into the ranks of WIPE, the World Institute for Protection in Emergencies, based primarily on the fact that he had an action hero name and an enlarged chin. As far as actually being qualified for his job was concerned, he was far from what was needed in a WIPE agent. His lack of imagination and professional cynicism meant he was not cut out for some of the more fantastical elements of his job, a fact which did not escape the mind of his superior, The Commissioner, who had tried for years to get Dynamite killed on some exotic mission to Mars, or similar locale.
“Sorry Commissioner, it’s just so hard for me to get my head around. I mean, the fact that the legendary Project Pendragon is real is one thing, but to find out what it is…it just makes my head spin.”
“Head spinning? Sounds like a case of the deadly Spinnichi virus. Very nasty. Only one cure for that…death itself,” The Commissioner reached for his gun.
“Oh no sir, my head isn’t actually spinning, that was just a metaphor.”
“Oh. Pity,” The Commissioner re-holstered his gun with a sigh. “Well, if you do feel anything, let me know as soon as possible, alright?”
“Yes sir.”
“I mean it. Even the slightest twitch, you come right out and tell me, got it?”
“Got it, sir.”
“I mean even the slightest suspicion that your head may be about to spin, I want you to scream at me to shoot you, understood?”
“Erm…understood, sir.”
“Good.”
The two men approached a large door guarded by a single robot sentry, which promptly aimed its laser cannon at them.
“Halt. Password request.”
The Commissioner, unfortunate enough to have been given the same name as the famous Batman supporting character, had been permanently positioned in his role thanks to the infamous humour of the military. Normally the army didn’t have any Commissioners, unless you counted the Salvation Army, which nobody did. Gordon had been granted the rank as a specialist position in the WIPE organisation, a subsection of the US Military, which pretty much gave him carte blanche around the entire building, including knowledge of every password.
“Beef jerky.”
“Password incorrect,” said the robotic sentry, his laser cannon warming up.
“Oh damn. Er, is it ‘Pastrami and noodles?’
“Negative,” the cannon’s shriek got louder.
“Damn, what was I eating last time I came by here? Good thing I keep all my receipts in my coat.”
The Commissioner reached around his trench coat pocket and pulled out a bunch of paper pieces.
“Ham on rye?” he read from one. “Italian dressing? Cigarettes and chocolate milk? The Zen Guide to Cabinet Arranging?”
“Negative, negative, negative, negative,” said the robot sentry, a smile appearing on his metallic face as his finger pulled tighter on the trigger.
“Oh for the love of crap…how inebriated was I? I didn’t say ‘Swordfish’ again, did I? Last time I did that, half the department managed to break in here. Had a hell of a time working all those amnesia pills into the cafeteria’s shepherd’s pie.”
“Nega-tive,” replied the robot sentry in a sing-song voice, the laser cannon now screaming as if ready to burst.
“Fine, screw it, the password is now ‘Turn that blinking laser cannon off.”
“Afirmative,” said the robot sentry, sadly deactivating his laser cannon. He would never get to shoot anyone if The Commissioner kept changing the password. The door opened up to reveal a pitch black room, with the appropriate lights hanging down from the ceiling which lit up as they walked along.
“Can’t say I’m surprised you didn’t work out what Project Pendragon was about, Dynamite,” said The Commissioner. “It’s so obvious even a child could understand it.”
“…I don’t get it, sir.”
“Exactly. Come on, man, it was obvious! Pendragon, Arthur Pendragon, King Arthur, prophesied to return when England was in danger. What else could it be?”
The two walked in silence for a while.
“Dynamite, I’m asking you a question.”
“Oh, sorry sir. Thought you were being rhetorical.”
“Well I wasn’t. Idiot. Here we are.”
The Commissioner pointed ahead into the darkness.
“I don’t see it, sir.”
“Well of course not, Dynamite. It’s appropriately dark over there to keep up the suspense. Turn on the lights, will you?”
Dynamite groped his way to the wall and waved wildly to find the light switch. After several minutes he eventually found it, and turned it on. What the light revealed made his knees quiver in surprise.
“Oh my God…is that…oh God!”
“Oh pull yourself together, Dynamite. It’s only the well-preserved naked body of former US President Abraham Lincoln strapped to some fantastical device that’ll bring him back to life.”
“Oh, I get that sir. It’s just…I had no idea the ex-President was so…tall, sir. In the er…trouser department.”
“Why do you think we don’t allow women on this floor?” The Commissioner asked. “Now hand me that package.”
Dynamite handed over the parcel he’d been carrying, which The Commissioner unwrapped, revealing a pile of clothes and a stove-pipe hat.
“Help me get him dressed,” he ordered. “We don’t want to embarrass him.”
After several minutes of dressing, The Commissioner finally placed the hat upon the comatose body’s head.
“Alright, Mr. President,” he whispered. “Time to face the future.”
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