The Hipster Who Leapt Through Time (The Hipster Trilogy Book 2) (35 page)

“Okay.” Nisha was confused. Her smile dimmed. “Look, I gotta go and meet someone.”

“It’s okay, Miss Bhatia,” he said. “You don’t need to drink.”

“What did you say?” she said, taking a step towards him. She was still trying to smile but the facade of happiness had gone. Her eye contact moved away for a second before looking back up.
 

“It’s okay, Miss Bhatia. It’s okay.”

“Who the fuck do you think you are? Why would you say that to me?” she said, her voice rising in pitch. For the first time, Moomamu felt like he’d made a mistake. Too late, though. He’d caught the bus. He wasn’t driving it. He was a passenger.

“I know how you feel. You told me how you feel. But I don’t think you need to drink. You should just throw it away.”

“Throw what away?”
 

“That bottle of vodka you’ve got hiding away in your pocket. You should just throw it away.”
 

Nisha welled up. She tried to say something but no words came out. Just a strange hacking sound. She placed her hands against her eyes. Moomamu didn’t know what to do so he sipped his coffee. The slurping sound made Nisha look up.

“I … don’t understand,” she said wiping the tears from her eyes.

Moomamu then placed the coffee on the floor and took a step forward. He looked into her dark brown eyes and smiled. He lifted his hand and, unsure what to do, he patted Nisha’s head with a pat-pat.
 

“Don’t worry about it too much. Just crack on with life and all that. You humans don’t get too long. Make the most of it.”
 

“Okay,” Nisha said, squinting her eyes as if trying to work Moomamu out.

“Also, you might have crazy psychic powers but I’m not too sure if I changed all that when I went back in time, so, I dunno, just … be careful.”
 

Nisha smiled. She even chuckled. Not a genuine chuckle. It was a good-one-but-I-don’t-get-it laugh.

“Thanks, I guess,” she said. “You want me to buy you another coffee?”

“No no, I’ve got to go to work.”

“Where do you work?”

“Shoreditch,” Moomamu said. “Not too far from my flat.”
 

***

The Shoreditch Grind was at its usual lunchtime hustle. Warm outside and even warmer in the kitchen.

“Can you believe the new guy didn’t show up?” Lucas said as he handed Moomamu a handful of ceramic coffee mugs to place in the cupboard. They rattled as he moved them to beneath the espresso machine. “Just rude. You know what I mean?”

“Don’t worry too much,” Moomamu said. “I’m sure he’ll show up at some point.”

“Excuse me,” said a customer at the till. Blonde hair tied into a ponytail, tweed dress and an old Gameboy-come-necklace resting on her chest. “Do you guys have any sort of organic kale snacks around here?”

“Sorry,” Moomamu said. “We don’t have anything like that.”
 

“Ugh, what do I have to do to get a healthy organic snack around here? I’m peckish, dammit,” she said, shrugging her shoulders, and then leaving the café.

“We should start doing some of that kale stuff,” Lucas said.

“Yeah, we should,” Moomamu said as he looked out of the busy café. The afternoon sun bouncing through the windows. Humans everywhere. Drinking cow lactation. Chatting away. Worrying about their mostly meaningless lives. Bloody humans.
 

He smiled.

A Thinker’s Philosophy

Taken from Moomamu’s diaries.

19/01/1976

Dear Paper,

I’ve seen humans do this a lot, but it’s my first time. Journaling. Putting an inky pen to flattened tree innards. It feels a little wrong. Why save the world if humans are just going to kill anyway and use the plants as their communication tool?

But …

This world is a strange one.
 

It was about fifteen years ago that I spent time with that stupid monkey. I still think about her to this day. Our time wandering the Earth, living in communes, trying to find our understanding of Earth life. I think we were just as confused as each other.

Some things I’ve noticed since then:

Humans shouldn’t be allowed to talk unless spoken to. Ever.
 

For every animal killed to be eaten by a human, a human must be sacrificed and fed to an animal. (I can’t see them going with this one.)

Humans should stop drinking so much alcohol or smoking marijuana or doing any form of drugs. They’re stupid enough as it is. They don’t need help.

Humans should be allowed to colonise one other planet. They get one main planet and a backup in case anything happens to this one. Anything more than that is just greedy.

Marriage is not sacred but after speaking to a couple of human law-mongers it does sound very practical.

Humans all come from the same genetic cesspool. Yet they constantly complain about people with other colours of skin tone. I think humans should wear black form-fitting uniforms that cover their faces at all times so they all look the same. Except for David Bowie. I really dig his originality.

Humans should meditate and practice mental quiet as much as possible. Every day. I feel like I deserve a break from their so-called “thinking”.

E=MC
²
.
Apparently.
 

Lastly, I’ve noticed that you never see a happy bald man. I mean, they smile but, underneath you can see the sadness.

Humans can become very bonded to other beings. The monkey is proof of that. As I write this my eyes are watering. I still remember the day she died like it was yesterday. She was old, they said. She had to go now, they said.
 

Attachment to other beings makes me sad, but … I still feel like it's a good thing for some reason. Must be some faulty neural pathways or something.
 

And then there was the whole issue with The Light. He kept to his promise. He never took me home, but still, he took me. A story for another time.

Anyway, thank you tree, for sacrificing yourself for me to write down my thoughts,

Moomamu The Thinker

It’s Not Over

Picture this.

Night-time. The smell of marijuana smoke is thick in the air. The central fire pit has been extinguished completely by the rain yet it still smolders. Only hours before and the idiots were singing songs about peace and free love, dancing around it.
 

A man. A different one. In a much worse condition. A weathered cloak covering most of his face and his body. His hair is so matted it's difficult to see the separation between the locks. They tumble stiffly around his shoulder in grey and black and converge with his grey beard.

His skin is broken and forever-sore. A vessel long since dead. The blood barely pumping around his system at all.
 

His name is …

Well, he’s picked up a few.

Dear Lord.

A second ago and he was standing in the distant future. Aliens. Robots. Death. Lots of death. It’s the precipice. The turning point for the Earth. It’s the point at which this man plans to bring about his new world, his new Eden.

Praise be our Father.

The man walks in bare feet across the soggy grass and steps over the wet ash and charcoal and walks past a row of cabins and tents. Each with their own idiotic sinful human inside.

It is not their fault, my Lord.

He steps past them and comes to the furthest one along. The cabin on the end, hiding half beneath a tree. With a thought he disappears and reappears inside the cabin.
 

They did not know they were soiling the very grounds of Eden.

The Thinker and the chimpanzee are asleep. The Thinker’s chest moves slowly up and down, as does Miss Sam’s.

“You didn’t follow my orders,” he whispers to the sleeping duo. They don’t stir. It’s late. They’re tired. They are out cold.

I firmly resolve, with the help of Thy grace, to help them sin no more, for I am The Light of God.

“And now I’m going to rip your fucking heart out.”

Amen.

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END OF BOOK STUFF

Holy crap!
 

This was a giant story to tell. So many places, times, characters, and so much trying to make sure you felt the emotion, the pain, and the heartbreak of missing your home. Home, is of course a relative thing and can often change.
 

I’m writing this from my flat in London. I’ve lived her for 18 months and am moving to Manchester soon. I’m sure I’ll spend a couple of years there before moving on again. Potentially abroad.
 

When I talk to my mum about my perpetual need to move on she gives me the old familiar ‘why don’t you just settle down’ speech. Which, I’m sure I will do at some point, but right now, home is a fluid concept to me. As long as I’m close to my fiancée and our pet cat, Oscar, and as long as I have an internet connection, I’m at home. Oh and coffee. I need that too.

So I’m off now … I need to go and write the final book to this trilogy. I can’t wait to close the chapter and finally delve into who and what The Light is. You may have your suspicions already. You may be right, but I’m telling you now, it’s not the obvious answer. It’s probably not what you’re thinking.

If you’ve made it this far in the series, I’m pretty sure you maybe kinda like it. The strange blend of horror, comedy, sci-fi, superhero, and satire might be your kind of thing (yer big weirdo!). If that’s true, then you could really help me out by heading over to Amazon and leaving me an honest review.
 

I really am doing my best over here. Burning the candle at both ends and all that. And reading your reviews (goddamit all you guys seem to like Gary) really makes me smile and gives me the energy to carry on. So thanks in advance (time travel compliment).
 

As before, many thanks to the following:

My fiancée. Marvel comics. Star Wars. Early morning coffee. London. My pet cat, Oscar. Clive Barker. My mum and her many dogs. The soundtrack to the game, Faster Than Light. Craig Campbell. My old science teacher who was definitely a hippy at one point in his life. My colleagues at Hawk & Cleaver: Matt, Ben, and now Dan. Matt Clark ‘The Script Guy’. My podcast listeners. My blog readers. Reddit. SciFiIdeas.com. Sean Platt. James Altucher. And our lovely editor Steph Dagg.

All the best,

Luke Kondor.

The Hipster Trilogy