The Temporal Twiddling Device Part Uno
Like any other weekend morning in the life of renowned chef Markus Joram, the aged culinary master sat on the balcony of his study, surveying the cityscape from eight stories above the cobbled streets below. The land undulated below the city, old brick buildings mixed with concrete and glass monoliths climbed the sides of steep hills and great ridges all around, the Red Wolf of the Europa Imperica and the faces of her leaders fluttered on massive banners hanging off weathered facades. The sun hung near the horizon to the east on Joram’s left, bathing the city in a rich gold light, sharpening what little color was left in the great urban expanse.
At this moment in time Joram was partaking in his second and third favorite pastimes behind cooking; reading, and caressing his massive and shockingly white sideburns.
The book in his hands was a volume on spices from the former continent of South America, and while Joram would have much rather physically gone to South America to sample its tastes, his old age and colorful attitude towards the government of the Europa Imperica meant he was unlikely to leave the city anytime soon. Still, he had a restaurant to run, and a reputation to uphold as head chef of one of the finest eateries on the former continent of Europe.
It was the only way he could stay sane, to cook. Without it he would’ve gone mad long ago; more than once the image of the Civilia Domestica building in flames and the riddled corpse of Chancellor Killian Kane lying at his feet had crossed through his mind.
But not today. Today he had merely gone to his balcony, flipped the bird in defiance at the massive statue of the Red Wolf atop the capitol complex to the north, and begun reading.
Joram had gotten quite far into the text, before the morning took a decidedly abnormal turn.
His apartment’s front door, along with his housekeeper, came hurtling passed the study door, accompanied with an ear shattering blast. Joram looked up from his book just in time to witness a trio of black clad figures descend ropes and join him on the balcony.
“Mister Joram?” one of them said, voice muffled by a dark gas mask emblazoned with a wolf couched on a four pointed star: the Domestic Police insignia. The elderly chef lowered his book and looked over his shoulder as the two other officers moved towards the study doorway, stubby machineguns raised.
“You talking to me?” Joram said, returning his gaze to the remaining officer and pointing at himself. The officer nodded his response. “No,” Joram replied with a gravely voice, returning to his book, “He’s dead, have a nice day.”
The officer didn't move at all, merely stared at Joram. After a few seconds of silence between the two, the shouts of other officers ringing through the apartment, Joram spoke.
“You want me to jerk you off or something kid?” He said from behind the book, “I told you he’s dead, now go away.”
“But sir,” the officer said, a little bewilderment in his voice. “You’re Joram, you have to be.”
The chef dropped his book.
“Well damn kid, that hurts,” he barked, “First of all you come busting into my home and ruin my lovely morning, and now you say that I’m someone I just said was dead. I may be old but I don’t think I look that old.”
Joram looked up at the officer, dark blue eyes staring into black lenses, and the man said nothing. The silence was broken by a voice from the study’s entrance.
“Markus Joram, how are you this morning?”
Joram’s face tightened into a smile, and he sprang up from his chair. In the threshold stood a stocky man a little younger than Joram, sporting a captain’s outfit and an immaculate curling red mustache that twitched as the block of a man talked.
“Sorry about the mess,” He said, waving towards the hallway where Joram could see the mangled, splinter-ridden corpse of Miss Rosemary the housekeeper under the scorched remains of his front door. “Hope she wasn't too dear to you, though I doubt anyone could get you up at this age.”
Joram simply continued smiling, ignoring the comment.
“What do you want inspector, I was reading something” He said.
Inspector Cambridge Matthews moved towards Joram, coming to a halt a foot away from the chef’s magnificent sideburn clad face, and pulled a small microchip from his pocket.
“We have reason to believe, you old bastard,” He said, thumbing the chip, “that you are keeping items of contraband somewhere on this premises. Well, an item I should say.” A holographic image leapt from the chip, displaying a search warrant bearing the signature of Harrison Kane; the director of the Domestic Police.
“And what contraband might that be?” Joram replied, his voice low as he stared defiantly into the inspector’s eyes, the smile still plastering his face, “Brains? Intelligence? A good sense of humor?”
“None of those,” Matthews quipped with a small smile, stepping away and turning his back on Joram, “All of which you wouldn’t find here of course.”
“Then what are you here for?”
Matthews pulled a book off the shelf and flipped through its pages, stopping suddenly and snapping it shut. He looked up at Joram and tilted the book back so its title could be seen.
It was an older volume, its face scratched and weathered, but the words were clearly legibly in curling gold font.
The Flavors of Temporal Travel.
“We’re here, Mister Joram,” The inspector said, his chin raised, eyes alight with fire, “for your time machine.”
RedDeath: Well. After a long and arduous hiatus, we have returned! And this week I challenged TwigMan to a story about a time machine and boy has he delivered.