The Time Machine

You follow the Creepy Proprietor down a flight of stairs so narrow you almost have to crabwalk, into a dirty basement lit by a single bulb.  You’re beginning to think this was a bad idea.

“There it is,” he says in that grasping voice, pointing long fingers at the corner. The time machine looks like an overlarge beer keg with a bulkhead on the front.  You stare at it, and then he spins the handle.

You ask him if it’ll work.

“Yes.  Just not the way you want it to.”

You get in; the door shuts.  There is a humming.


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