“Don’t sex-growl at me, jackass.”
Can’t help it. Good picture. You look like an experimental novelist who won the MacArthur Genius grant.
“Y’know, it’s creepy when a compliment is that specific.”
You’re the one wearing the artistic glasses.
“These are neat, aren’t they? Got an owl thing going on.”
Where’d you get ’em? A little hippie shop? Old lady find ’em for you?
“The Oliver Peoples in the Short Hills Mall.”
GodDAMNit, I need you people to stop using the Time Sheath to go shopping.
“Fuck off. I’m a firm believer in the free market.”
I don’t care how libertarian your economic philosophies are, they don’t include skipping ahead a few decades to find accessories.
“Ah, stuff it. It’s not like I’m going back in time and stealing Old Masters from the Nazis.”
You’re doing that, aren’t you?
“Fun and profit.”
How do you profit off of that? They’re stolen paintings with no provenance.
“Easy. I steal the art, find out who it belonged to, jump back a few decades or whatever, and sell the paintings to their original owners.”
You just gave my brain a toothache. I hate trying to make sense of time travel.
“The math works out.”
Oh, don’t bring math into this. What did math ever do to you?
“You know what’s some real good cash? Titanic memorabilia. Stuff actually from the ship.”
How does a Time Sheath get you thousands of feet underwater?
“It doesn’t. It gets me on the ship about an hour or so before the iceberg.”
Why don’t you warn people?
“Because then the stuff wouldn’t be worth anything.”
I’m beginning to regret giving the Grateful Dead a time machine.