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Authors: John Luke Robertson
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real. Well, it might be real one day. To Stonewall (currently Stone face ), though, time travel is made-up nonsense.
You’ve decided that maybe it’s okay to save Stonewall Jackson’s life. But you’re not trying to help the South win the war.
Saving Stonewall Jackson won’t save the South.
Or will it? You can’t access Twitter to take a poll.
“You do know we’re saving your life,” you tell the general. “You realize you would get shot in battle? By your own men?”
The stern-faced general doesn’t reply. Jase, however, does.
“‘Fat guy in a little coat,’” he sings to you.
“Shut up and let’s get these horses going.” The only problem is, you’re not sure where to go. “Excuse me, General? What direction is Gettysburg?”
“I think that’s Pennsylvania,” Jase says.
“Where are we, again?”
“Virginia.”
You nod.
“Are they next to each other?” Jase asks.
“You should have paid better attention in geography,” you tell your brother.
Stonewall Jackson can only shake his head.
You’ve been riding for half an hour when two figures approach on foot. One wears a dark poncho with a cowboy hat and the other a sombrero. Both appear to be carrying holstered pistols.
“Good day, gentlemen,” you say.
“Have any of you stumbled upon a man called Angel Eyes?”
“No,” Jase says, looking at you. “Willie, you know who this is?”
The two men sure look familiar.
“What are your names?” Jase asks.
“You can call me Tuco,” the sombrero man says with an accent. “He’s Blondie.”
“I’m just waiting for the music now,” Jase says. “You know —the aheeaheeaaaaaaaa .”
“We’re back in time,” you say. “Not in a movie.” Are there no rules to this thing?
The guy named Blondie is talking to you now. Not only that —his gun is aimed at you. You kinda wish you had a weapon to defend yourself, even that dagger you found in the warehouse from the Thanksgiving play —not that it would do much good against a gun.
“Give us the horses,” he says. “You see, in this world there’s two kinds of people, my friend: those with loaded guns and those who walk. You walk.”
You’re about to get off your horse, butStonewall Jackson won’t take any more of this. He begins to ride away.
Suddenly Tuco gets nervous and draws his gun too. Jase bends over and looks like he’s going to jump off the horse, but the nervous bandit thinks he’s doing something else.
The sound of gunfire is the last thing you hear.
Actually, it’s the steady sound of drums, followed by a flute that sounds like a coyote.
Wah, wah, wah . . . turns into “Oops! . . . I Did It Again.” All of a sudden you’re in the Duck Commander warehouse, your ears echoing with the sounds of gunshots and drums.
THE END
Start over.
Read “The Morning Fog: A Note from John Luke Robertson.”
1990
“YOU’RE PRETTY HANDSOME, you know that?” you tell your high school self.
He doesn’t seem that impressed or amused. More like creeped out. He’s standing in front of John Luke, still looking like he might be ready to start a fight.
A clash between the mullet heads. That’s gonna be great.
“Hey, man, can we go take a walk?”
You know he’ll say yes because he —you —learned to always respect your elders.
“Yes, sir.”
You vacate the crowded gym for the hallway, leaving John Luke behind. A group of students walk past and make jokes about the beard. You’re used to it.
“So how’re you doing tonight?”
“Fine.”
“Really? You don’t look fine.”
He doesn’t say anything. It’s funny seeing yourself. Especially a younger and clean-shaven version of yourself.
“Can I tell you a few things? A few things about life?”
“I’m not going to do anything to the kid,” he says. “Is he your son?”
You smile and nod. “Well, yes, he is.”
“I’m not going to get in a fight.”
“Listen —there are times you have to put up a fight for
You’ve decided that maybe it’s okay to save Stonewall Jackson’s life. But you’re not trying to help the South win the war.
Saving Stonewall Jackson won’t save the South.
Or will it? You can’t access Twitter to take a poll.
“You do know we’re saving your life,” you tell the general. “You realize you would get shot in battle? By your own men?”
The stern-faced general doesn’t reply. Jase, however, does.
“‘Fat guy in a little coat,’” he sings to you.
“Shut up and let’s get these horses going.” The only problem is, you’re not sure where to go. “Excuse me, General? What direction is Gettysburg?”
“I think that’s Pennsylvania,” Jase says.
“Where are we, again?”
“Virginia.”
You nod.
“Are they next to each other?” Jase asks.
“You should have paid better attention in geography,” you tell your brother.
Stonewall Jackson can only shake his head.
You’ve been riding for half an hour when two figures approach on foot. One wears a dark poncho with a cowboy hat and the other a sombrero. Both appear to be carrying holstered pistols.
“Good day, gentlemen,” you say.
“Have any of you stumbled upon a man called Angel Eyes?”
“No,” Jase says, looking at you. “Willie, you know who this is?”
The two men sure look familiar.
“What are your names?” Jase asks.
“You can call me Tuco,” the sombrero man says with an accent. “He’s Blondie.”
“I’m just waiting for the music now,” Jase says. “You know —the aheeaheeaaaaaaaa .”
“We’re back in time,” you say. “Not in a movie.” Are there no rules to this thing?
The guy named Blondie is talking to you now. Not only that —his gun is aimed at you. You kinda wish you had a weapon to defend yourself, even that dagger you found in the warehouse from the Thanksgiving play —not that it would do much good against a gun.
“Give us the horses,” he says. “You see, in this world there’s two kinds of people, my friend: those with loaded guns and those who walk. You walk.”
You’re about to get off your horse, butStonewall Jackson won’t take any more of this. He begins to ride away.
Suddenly Tuco gets nervous and draws his gun too. Jase bends over and looks like he’s going to jump off the horse, but the nervous bandit thinks he’s doing something else.
The sound of gunfire is the last thing you hear.
Actually, it’s the steady sound of drums, followed by a flute that sounds like a coyote.
Wah, wah, wah . . . turns into “Oops! . . . I Did It Again.” All of a sudden you’re in the Duck Commander warehouse, your ears echoing with the sounds of gunshots and drums.
THE END
Start over.
Read “The Morning Fog: A Note from John Luke Robertson.”
1990
“YOU’RE PRETTY HANDSOME, you know that?” you tell your high school self.
He doesn’t seem that impressed or amused. More like creeped out. He’s standing in front of John Luke, still looking like he might be ready to start a fight.
A clash between the mullet heads. That’s gonna be great.
“Hey, man, can we go take a walk?”
You know he’ll say yes because he —you —learned to always respect your elders.
“Yes, sir.”
You vacate the crowded gym for the hallway, leaving John Luke behind. A group of students walk past and make jokes about the beard. You’re used to it.
“So how’re you doing tonight?”
“Fine.”
“Really? You don’t look fine.”
He doesn’t say anything. It’s funny seeing yourself. Especially a younger and clean-shaven version of yourself.
“Can I tell you a few things? A few things about life?”
“I’m not going to do anything to the kid,” he says. “Is he your son?”
You smile and nod. “Well, yes, he is.”
“I’m not going to get in a fight.”
“Listen —there are times you have to put up a fight for
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