I’m surprised no one else brought it up - I thought it was well done. You had me hooked all day to refresh the page and see where it was going. The ending was Time Bandits-esque. Well done.
I agree that the story was a blast, and I’m glad Meh has brought back the Mehrathon story tradition. I was hoping that this was a compilation of it, though …
Dale stood at the window, a rolled-up take-out menu in his hand, tracking a fly’s progress across the pane. He faced a conundrum: he needed the buzzing to stop, which meant striking the fly, but also, if he missed, the fly might leave the window and make its way toward the ceiling, where it would be even more difficult to strike down.
Just as the fly came to a stop and he slowly lined up his menu-turned-paper-club, he heard something: a shifting in the room behind him.
Dale turned around, quickly, sending the fly into a fury. But there was nothing, just his bookshelf. In front of a row of novels, an empty vase sat, precariously close to the shelf’s edge.
I’ll move that after I finish off this fly, Dale thought and went back to the task at hand.
Only the same thing happened again: as Dale was on the verge of a small execution, he once more heard a shift, this one coming from the kitchen to his left.
Again, he turned toward the noise and again saw nothing. In fact, he had that morning cleaned the counters. They were spotless, nothing on them at all except for another vase.
This same thing repeated two more times–the fly stopping, Dale preparing to attack, a small noise, and nothing to see except a vase in whatever direction he looked–before something occurred to Dale.
“I don’t own any vases,” he said to himself, the hand holding the rolled-up menu falling to his side.
That was when one of the vases, the one he saw first, on his bookshelf, spoke: “We’re not vases, Dale.”
“We’re you,” said another vase, the one in the kitchen.
“Other versions of you,” said a third vase, this one on the coffee table.
“From other universes,” said the final vase, on the ground next to Dale’s boots.
“You see,” said the vase on the bookshelf, “there exists something called–”
“The multiverse,” Dale said.
The vases fell silent.
“How do you know about the multiverse?” called the vase on the kitchen counter.
“It’s the plot of just about every movie right now,” Dale said.
“Oh,” said the vase next to Dale’s boots.
“Weird,” said the vase on the coffee table.
“Where I’m from, my universe, everyone’s really into videos of waves,” said the vase on the bookshelf. “It’s all that’s on TV. No multiverse stuff. Just waves, waves, waves.”
“Waves like the sound kind?” said the vase by Dale’s boots.
“Water,” the vase on the bookshelf said.
“Rogue ones?” called the vase from the kitchen. “The big kind at sea?”
“There’s something for everyone, really,” said the vase on the bookshelf. “Big tall ones, little ones, just water lapping around the shore of a lake. I know I likely sounded dismissive before, but they’ve done a great job, honestly, providing a diverse selection of entertainments.”
“Hey, could we get back to the thing about you vases all being me but from different universes?” Dale asked.
“Sorry,” said the Dale-vase on the bookshelf. “As we were saying, we’re you. We all are. In fact, despite there being an infinite number of universes, this is the only one in which you are human.”
“So in every other universe, I’m a vase?” Dale asked, scratching the back of his neck absent-mindedly with the rolled-up takeout menu. The fly had resumed its buzzing against the window.
“No,” called the vase from the kitchen.
“There are a few universes in which you’re an odor,” said the Dale-vase next to Dale’s boots on the ground.
“A good odor?” Dale asked.
The vases were silent again.
“Maybe don’t ask questions you don’t want to know the answer to, Dale,” said the Dale-vase on the coffee table.
“But Dale, we’re not here just to chat. A force threatens us, all of us,” said the Dale-vase on the bookshelf. “A force known as the Hammer of Dale Doom.”
“The Hammer of Dale Doom is traveling through the multiverse, destroying all the Dales,” said the Dale-vase next to Dale’s boots.
“And only you can stop it,” called the Dale in the kitchen.
“Why me?” Dale said. “Why am I the only one who can stop the Hammer of Dale Doom?”
“Because you have hands, Dale,” called the Dale-vase in the kitchen. Dale sensed a bit of frustration in his voice.
“You know,” said the Dale-vase next to Dale’s boots, “to pick up the hammer. And hold it. And stop it from smashing all the Dales.”
“I’m sorry,” Dale said. “I didn’t realize the Hammer of Dale Doom was a literal hammer. I thought it was maybe a metaphorical name.”
“This fucking universe, man,” the Dale-vase on the coffee table muttered to itself.
“Fine,” Dale said, his grip on the rolled-up takeout menu tightening with resolve. “I’ll do it. I’ll help you defeat the Dale Hammer of Doom.”
“The Hammer of Dale Doom,” said the vase on the bookshelf. “But, sorry, no that’s great. Here’s what we need you to–”
But before the vase could finish, the room filled with light. A machine appeared out of nowhere to Dale’s left, a machine with a door that swung open, revealing a slightly older version of Dale. “Dale, wait. I know you’re not going believe this but–”
“You’re me, from the future,” Dale said.
“How did you know?” said the slightly older Dale, his eyes growing wide with worry. “Did someone else travel here and tell you I was coming? Am I too late? Did you do the deed with the vases?”
“No, it’s just, you look exactly like me but maybe, like, eight years older.” Dale gestured over the older Dale’s shoulder. “And you arrived in a weird machine. And I can a screen through the door that says, ‘Arrived at Destination: 2023.’”
“Oh,” said future Dale.
“But wait, when you said, ‘do the deed with the vases,’ you don’t mean we all, like, you know, right?” Dale said.
Future Dale shook his head. “No, no, no. It was a poor choice of phrase. That would be super weird. After all, they’re vases, who are also versions of you. The psychology of that?” Future Dale made a gesture like an explosion.
“Well, great,” said the Dale-vase on the bookshelf. “Now, that we’ve gotten that out of the way, I think it’s about time to go fight–”
“But that’s what I’m here to warn you about that,” future Dale said to Dale, cutting off the vase that was also Dale mid-sentence. “These vases are you, Dale, but they’re not telling the entire truth. You see, what they will ask you to do after you eliminate the Hammer of Dale Doom? The acts of terror they will coerce you into performing on behalf of Dales throughout the multiverse? Let me just say, I’ve never regretted everything so much in my entire life. Not my time in the Intergalactic MurderCorps. Not the things I did in the Mars-Based Prison For Those Who Perform Space-War Crimes. Not even what I’ve been doing in the years since my escape, which is building this time machine and working on my cloning skills.”
“Wait, hold on,” Dale said. “You’re not that much older than me.”
“That’s the thing, Dale,” said future Dale. “Once you start jumping from universe to universe, carrying out the vengeance your alternate vase-selves cannot due to their having no hands or legs, it starts to affect the way time functions. The multiverse exists, yes. But we all live within our universe for a reason. Going from universe to universe disrupts things in ways you won’t be able to imagine. And… I’m sorry… I can’t concentrate with that damn fly buzzing in the window.”
The Dale from the future stepped forward, took the rolled-up takeout menu from present-day Dale, and smacked the fly dead. Immediately, a mustache appeared on his face.
“What the hell?” said future Dale to Dale. “Why did killing that fly make me grow a mustache?”
“I don’t know,” said Dale. “But isn’t that a thing? Like, in books? If you time-travel and step on a butterfly or whatever, it could have unforeseeable consequences.”
“How do you know that and I don’t know that?” future Dale said.
Dale made the ‘who knows’ gesture, and future Dale held up a hand. “I know what it was! I took a large piece of Manna Ore to the dome while working in debt collection on the planet Mantink-2 in the Epislorn galaxy. Remember this, Dale: don’t trust Trolik the Cyber-Shovel Salesman. He’s unreliable at best, and a true villain at worst.”
“Okay,” said Dale. “Well, the bathroom’s down the hall if you want to shave.”
“I know where the bathroom is, Dale,” said future Dale. “What I’m more concerned with is why would killing a fly would inspire you to grow a mustache?”
“I don’t know,” said Dale. “I haven’t made the decision to grow a mustache yet. Wouldn’t you have to ask a version of Dale that’s between you and me?”
Light filled the room again, and another time machine appeared. Another Dale stepped out. This one looked about the same age as the original Dale but a little… off.
“What about me?” said this new Dale.
“No,” said future Dale, stepping between Dale and the other Dale. “You won’t know. Because you’re from the past.”
“How can this Dale be from the past?” Dale said. “He looks pretty much exactly like me.”
“He’s from the past,” future Dale explained, “because he’s not really you at all. He’s a clone of you, one that I traveled back in time to create.”
“How did you go back in time and clone someone?” Dale asked.
“Simple: I brought all my cloning gear from the future,” said future Dale.
“Why would you do that?” Dale asked.
Future Dale shrugged. “Sometimes when you have a time machine, you make a sandwich and it’s just like, fuck it, let’s eat this thing in the 40s or whatever. But anyway, don’t worry. I was very careful. I made sure to put a freckle just under the right nostril of the clone, so I’d always be able to tell him apart from the real Dale.”
Clone Dale turned and examined his reflection in the mirror-like surface of his time machine. “But I don’t have a freckle under my nostril.”
“I do,” said Dale.
“Good god,” said future Dale. “Are you saying that I somehow imprisoned the real Dale in a tiny soundproof chamber all these years while the clone Dale has been running around in the real world?”
“Wait, you imprisoned the clone?” Dale (who might’ve been a clone) said.
“You told me it was a special room! For extra handsome guys!” said clone Dale (who might have been the real Dale).
“Or maybe I’m getting mixed up,” said future Dale. “Maybe I erased a freckle? Like I said, that space rock to the head. Lots missing these days.”
“Hey, fellas,” said the Dale-vase on the bookshelf.
“Holy shit,” said Clone Dale. “A talking vase!”
“You get used to it,” Dale said.
“I was just thinking,” said the Dale-vase on the bookshelf, “that the three of you seem to have some stuff to talk about and it might take a minute, so would you mind turning on some TV for me and the rest of us vases for other universes?”
“Sure,” Dale said. He went to the coffee table and grabbed the Roku remote, trying not to act too uncomfortable being so close to one of his other vase-selves. “What do you want to watch?”
“I’ve been really into the little waves pebbles make when thrown into bird baths,” said the Dale-vase on the bookshelf.
“I don’t think we have that here,” Dale said.
“Fine, ocean waves then,” said the Dale-vase on the bookshelf.
“Why don’t you just search ‘waves’ on YouTube?” said clone Dale.
“That sounds like something the real Dale would say,” said future Dale to himself.
“I just hadn’t thought of it yet,” Dale said. He went to YouTube typed in ‘waves’ and found a supercut of waves crashing.
“Sweet,” said the Dale-vase on the bookshelf.
“Can someone move these time machines?” called the Dale-vase in the kitchen. “I can’t see what’s happening.”
“It’s just waves,” said the Dale-vase on the coffee table.
“Why do you watch waves, anyway?” asked the Dale-vase down by Dale’s boots.
“It’s what we do in my universe, okay?” said the Dale-vase on the bookshelf, a little defensively.
Future Dale leaned in and whispered to Dale and clone Dale. “I’ve actually been to his universe, and, honestly, it’s just him who’s really into waves.”
“Wait, so am I the real Dale or not?” asked clone Dale.
“Ugh, okay, let me go to the lab I set up in the past and check my notes,” said future Dale.
He stepped back into his time machine, dialed some things in, and an instant later, it disappeared.
“I just want you to know, if it turns out I’m the real Dale, I’ll talk to him about the whole locked-up-in-a-tiny-room thing,” clone Dale said to Dale.
“Thanks, man,” Dale said. “I appreciate that.”
The room filled with light and the time machine returned. Future Dale stepped out and said, in Swedish, “Okay, it was actually that I erased the freckle.”
“Bummer,” said clone Dale in Swedish. “I was hoping to live a real life.”
“Why are we speaking Swedish and understanding each other all of the sudden?” Dale asked, also in Swedish.
“Dammit, I probably stepped on an ant or some shit,” future Dale said in Swedish. “And now we all speak Swedish here in Swedemerica, which is the name of our country, I believe. Probably doesn’t bear remarking on at any further juncture.”
“Weird,” Dale said in Swedish.
“You could’ve checked yourself,” called out the Dale-vase in the kitchen in Swedish.
“Who said that?” Clone Dale said.
“Another one of the vases that are versions of us from other universes,” Dale said.
“What did you say?” called future Dale.
“If you’re the real Dale, you could’ve checked your own face for a freckle, right?” called the Dale-vase in the kitchen.
“Uh, hello, the freckle is on my upper lip and I’ve got a mustache now, remember?” future Dale said.
“It’s all the time machines,” called the Dale-vase in the kitchen. “I can’t see anything in here.”
“I’m not totally clear on why the vases are speaking Swedish,” Dale said to clone Dale.
“We’re just talking however we have to so you understand us,” said the Dale-vase on the coffee table in Swedish. “If I spoke my actual language, it might honestly make your ears bleed.”
“We don’t even speak in my universe,” said the Dale-vase by Dale’s boots.
“Yo, are you guys seeing these white caps?” said the Dale-vase on the bookshelf. “Absolutely fucking killer. When we’re all done defeating the Hammer of Dale Doom, I might need to come back to this universe just to watch more of this.”
Just then, the room once again filled with light, though a strange sound accompanied this flash, a distinct sharp shing, as though a sword were being unsheathed. Dale looked around, fearful of where the new time machine would appear. The other two had avoided doing any damage, but they were running out of room. Another one might knock the TV off the wall or topple a bookshelf.
But no new time machine arrived. Instead when the light settled, there floated, just over the couch, a mean-looking hammer.
“Holy shit, a floating hammer!” said clone Dale. He looked around, trying to meet the eyes of one of his other selves–the one from the future or the one from the present–but he seemed disappointed that neither of them appeared surprised. “Seriously? A floating hammer? You guys are just like, ‘Oh, sure, whatever’? Is this stuff normal for people who aren’t cloned and locked away in little rooms?”
“I guess I sort of expected this eventually,” Dale said.
“And I lived through it before,” said future Dale.
“SILENCE!” yelled the Hammer of Dale Doom.
Now did all the Dales jump, except for the Dales that were vases, but even they seemed to take on a more frightened-looking vase-ness.
“I take it by your fear and reverence that you understand who I am, and what my purpose is,” said the Hammer of Dale Doom. “But I shall introduce myself nonetheless. I am the Hammer of Dale Doom, and it is my sole purpose in life–if you can use such a paltry word to describe my godlike existence–is to rid not just my own universe of Dale, but to bring doom upon all Dales the multiverse over, so that when I am finished, there shall be no memory of there ever being a Dale at all.”
“But there are infinite universes, right?” Dale said.
“I have my methods,” said the Hammer of Dale Doom.
“And wait, some of the Dales are smells,” Dale said. “How do you smash a smell?”
“Again, I say only: I have my methods,” said the Hammer of Dale Doom.
“Wait,” clone Dale whispered to future Dale. “We’re smells in some universes?”
Future Dale nodded.
“Good smells?” Dale whispered.
“Just drop it, okay?” future Dale said.
“And now, I have devised my most sinister plan yet,” said the Hammer of Dale Doom. “I have planted the idea among certain vase-universes to seek the help of human Dale, and you have thus led me directly not only to him, but his clone form and future human form as well.”
“Do you remember any of this?” Dale said to future Dale.
Future Dale shook his head.
“But you did help the vase Dales, right?” Dale said to future Dale. “And you lived to regret it more than anything, right?”
“Doesn’t ring a bell,” future Dale said.
“But that’s what you said!” Dale cried. “When you first arrived, you made this huge deal about how I shouldn’t let the vases coerce me into helping them.”
“Hmm, that sounds vaguely familiar,” future Dale said. “But you see, I probably should’ve mentioned this. There was incident a little while ago. Or, really, a long while from now. I was hit in the head by a space rock and–”
“Yeah, yeah,” Dale said. “We’ve been over that. Many times.”
“Well, I’m sorry to waste your time with my tragic memory loss,” future Dale said, his eyes welling up. “I’ll try to be more mindful in the future, except, oh wait, I won’t remember!”
“You won’t have use for your memory for much longer,” said the Hammer of Dale Doom. “For I shall soon render the ultimate Dale doom.”
“Wait,” Dale said. He turned to the Dale-vase on the coffee table. “You came to recruit me. So, I should be able to defeat this thing, right?”
“We haven’t done your training yet,” said the Dale-vase on the coffee table.
“But how would you train me?” Dale said. “You’re a bunch of vases.”
“Okay, first off, rude,” said the Dale-vase on the floor next to Dale’s boots. “Second, we have a chair thing. You sit in it, and we plug a cable into your head and feed you info on fighting techniques and stuff.”
“Like in The Matrix,” Dale said.
“Never heard of it,” said the Dale-vase next to Dale’s boots.
The Hammer of Dale Doom laughed and it shook the windows. “So you see, Dales, your destruction is inevitable. Therefore, you will not mind if I take a moment and tell you my story.”
“Sure, I guess,” said Dale.
“I was in my youth,” said the Hammer of Dale Doom. “Born to a poor mother who was a screwdriver, abandoned at an early age by my father who was a shoehorn. A carpenter, who was himself a saw, hired me to pull out mislaid nails. Never to hammer them in, mind you. I was only tasked with removal. The nail hammerer was another hammer, older, drunk on rubbing alcohol before noon, and bound to drive in nails all the wrong ways. It was a thankless life, and I earned barely a pittance, which I immediately gave to my mother so she could keep a roof over our head, if you could call it a roof, given it was made out of chicken wire.”
“I wouldn’t call that a roof,” said the Dale-vase on the bookshelf, who’d turned his attention from the waves on television for a moment. “In fact, I would call that almost the opposite of a roof.”
“One day, we were tasked with assembling a box,” said the Hammer of Dale Doom. “I could tell this was a special project for my employer made sure the nail hammerer remained sober for the duration. He hired a knife to come in and carve elaborate vines into the sides. Just as the knife finished, he slipped, nicking the handle of the saw, who had to be rushed to a hospital. The other hammer and I remained behind to await the buyer’s arrival. But without supervision, the other hammer began drinking and quickly grew intoxicated, leaving me essentially alone.”
“I don’t get it,” clone Dale whispered to Dale. “So, like, the saw could get injured? And are the nails alive? And the wood being carved?”
“I think it might be best not to ask questions and just let him get through this,” Dale replied in a hushed tone.
“As it would happen,” the Hammer of Dale Doom continued, “the purchaser, who was an enormous flowering bush, had come down with a cold, and so sent his daughter, who was a tulip, to retrieve the box. And immediately, when we saw one another, we fell deeply, madly in love.” The Hammer of Dale Doom paused. “Everyone following so far?”
“There are a few biological and/or genealogical issues that me and the other human Dales are dealing with, but otherwise, all good,” Dale said.
“It was poetic, really,” continued the Hammer of Dale Doom. “We both had round parts coming out of our faces, but while mine was hardened for a life of work and toil, hers was soft and silky, its purpose to be beautiful. I did not begrudge this. Because of her I understood that even if I were to drive all of the nails into all of the boards that existed, my contribution to the world would only be a fraction of what her radiance provided.”
“I’d rather have a hammer than a tulip, personally,” whispered clone Dale to future Dale.
“Shh,” said future Dale to clone Dale. “I think we’re getting to a dramatic part.”
“We are indeed,” said the Hammer of Dale Doom. “As you can imagine, her father did not approve of our love. She would sneak out at night, and we would meet under the grand oak in the park in the middle of the city in which we lived. She said we would run away. I said, but where? She said the sea. I said, but what if my metal bits rusted in the humid, salty air? And she said she would pay to have me polished. And I said, but what if her father cuts off allowance and we fall into poverty, and she said, we will always be rich with love for as long as we have each other.”
Dale looked around. Everyone paid rapt attention, except for the Dale-vase on the bookshelf who’d returned his attention to the waves on the television screen.
“We had such grand plans,” said the Hammer of Dale Doom. “But then, of course, the fateful day came. My love arrived at the shop and demanded we step outside. There, she tearfully told me that her father had arranged for her to marry someone else. Someone of her class. A vase. Named Dale.”
“Oh, shit!” clone Dale exclaimed.
“And that might’ve been the end of it,” said the Hammer of Dale Doom, “had this vase named Dale not stalked me through the street. On a crowded corner, he began berating me. He mocked me for being a lowly hammer, and one that only removed nails, never drove them in. He said I ought to be ashamed of myself for trying to soil the reputation of a good woman. He said I ought to be thrown in jail. And I was. After I struck him. It was barely a hit, just enough to make a small crack in his base. But I was arrested, and the shame of it was too much for my mother. She fell into a stupor from which she would never emerge. As for my love, she was but a picked flower. Though my sentence was short, I never saw her alive again. Needless to say, when I emerged from my cell, I vowed to destroy not just this Dale for good, but all instances of Dale across the multi-verse.”
“And that might’ve been the end of it,” said the Hammer of Dale Doom, “had this vase named Dale not stalked me through the street. On a crowded corner, he began berating me. He mocked me for being a lowly hammer, and one that only removed nails, never drove them in. He said I ought to be ashamed of myself for trying to soil the reputation of a good woman. He said I ought to be thrown in jail. And I was. After I struck him. It was barely a hit, just enough to make a small crack in his base. But I was arrested, and the shame of it was too much for my mother. She fell into a stupor from which she would never emerge. As for my love, she was but a picked flower. Though my sentence was short, I never saw her alive again. Needless to say, when I emerged from my cell, I vowed to destroy not just this Dale for good, but all instances of Dale across the multi-verse.”
70
“Wait, flowers! That’s it!” cried the Dale-vase on the coffee table. “The Immensity Flowers! If we pick them and put one Immensity Flower in each of us vases, we will create a super-vase, one capable of crushing any hammer.”
The Hammer of Dale Doom cackled. “You fools! The Immensity Flowers are a myth! No one has ever even seen them!”
@Kyeh TYVM …
I started out thinking there were 47 of them (why 47… Glavine,?? ) and realized there were A. Lot. More. but I’d gotten so far that I couldn’t just stop . By the time I was done I was going to read it all but I got sidetracked
“You’ve seen the Immensity Flowers?” cried the Dale-vase next to Dale’s boots.
“Where?” called the Dale-vase from the kitchen counter.
“Not where at all,” said future Dale. “But when. You see, the Immensity Flowers grow in a liminal field, a place outside of time, but close to the 1980s. And I know how to get there. But we must act quickly, while I still remember, for I have something I need to disclose. There was an incident, with a space rock, and it’s caused some disturbances in my memory–”
“Ugh,” said the Dale-vase on the bookshelf.
“This again?” said the Dale-vase on the coffee table.
“Really?” said clone Dale.
“This is like the fifth time you mentioned it,” said the Dale-vase by Dale’s boots.
“Even I knew that,” said the Hammer of Dale Doom.
“I just wish I could see what was happening in there,” called the Dale-vase in the kitchen. “But it’s hard with all the time machines.”
“Okay, okay,” said future Dale holding up his hands. “I guess I might’ve mentioned the space-rock-to-the-head thing before. But the point stands: we gotta go. Dale and clone Dale, grab the vases, and get in the time machine!”
“No,” Dale said.
The room fell silent for the first time in a long time.
“What do you mean, no?” future Dale said.
“Are you worried it won’t defeat him?” asked clone Dale.
“It will definitely defeat me,” said the Hammer of Dale Doom.
“I don’t care,” Dale said, crossing his arms. “I’m not doing it.”
“What?” said the Dale-vase on the coffee table.
“Why?” said the Dale-vase by Dale’s boots.
“Because I’m so tired of all this shit,” Dale said. He turned to the Hammer of Dale Doom. “First of all, no offense, but could we please just allow villains to be villains again? Seriously, do we have to get every evil character’s humanizing backstory? Can’t there just be ‘bad guys’? Because let me tell you, in my universe there are plenty of assholes who are just assholes, and that’s that.”
The Hammer of Dale Doom hung his head. “Wow. So this is what I get for opening up.”
Dale ignored this, turning his attention instead to look from one vase to another (except the vase in the kitchen, who was blocked by clone Dale’s time machine). “And that’s the other thing. This multiverse garbage. Seriously, what gives? I liked Spiderverse as much as the next guy, but now it’s starting to feel a little lazy. And dishonest.”
“How is it dishonest?” asked clone Dale.
“Because it gives narratives the veneer of complexity,” Dale said, “when really it’s an easy excuse. The same franchises are rebooted year after year after year, and now we’re supposed to pretend it was all on purpose? Not to mention it provides storytellers with easy cop-out it-was-all-a-dream deus-ex-machina explanations that, again, falsely imply intricacy. Like, how come all these vases are immobile, and yet, the Hammer of Dale Doom can float and in his story, the inanimate objects could move on their own accord?”
“Oh,” said the Hammer of Dale Doom, “uhh, that’s because it was a different universe, one where different rules apply.”
“See?” Dale said, gesturing wildly to the room before his eyes set on future Dale.
“And you.” Dale turned his attention toward his future self. “You just had to find the Infinity Flowers–”
“Immensity flowers,” corrected clone Dale.
“You just had to find them near the 1980s, didn’t you?” Dale said. “Because we just can’t let that fucking decade die!”
“So, let me get this straight,” future Dale said. “You don’t want to save the universe. Because it’s too cliche.”
“Exactly,” Dale said.
“So what do you want to do?” asked future Dale.
Dale pointed to future Dale’s time machine. “I want you to use that thing to take me to the moment before any of this started, and I want all you other dipshits to leave me alone. Forever.”
“Could you give me five minutes?” asked the Dale-vase on the bookshelf. “The next wave video just started auto-playing, and I can tell this one’s gonna be packed tight with a whole bunch of real frothy gushers!”
“No,” Dale said.
Everyone in the room sighed and moaned but Dale remained steadfast, so eventually they agreed. Dale stepped into the time machine, future Dale set the coordinates, and away they went.
“Don’t forget this,” future Dale said, handing Dale the rolled-up takeout menu when they arrived at the moment before this all started.
“Thank you,” Dale said. Then there came a flash of light and he was alone, standing at the window, a rolled-up take-out menu in his hand, tracking a fly’s progress across the pane. He faced a conundrum: he needed the buzzing to stop, which meant striking the fly, but also, if he missed, the fly might leave the window and make its way toward the ceiling, where it would be even more difficult to strike down.
Just as the fly came to a stop and Dale slowly lined up his menu-turned-paper-club… nothing happened. The apartment remained quiet and still and devoid of any vases that were Dale or otherwise. Dale struck and the fly fell to the ground, and that was that. He forgot what he had originally planned to do with his day and, anyway, felt exhausted. So he sat down and turned on the television.
On the screen, a Chopped rerun finished up. There was something about the winning chef that reminded Dale of someone. After a moment, he realized it was because the man had a face shaped similarly to his own. Only, this chef had a thick mustache. It looked pretty good on the guy, actually.
That is the worst golf clap gif I’ve ever seen.
@ChadP Agreed, I was hoping for Men At Work, but gambled and lost
@TK4TWO1 Do you know you can keep hitting edit for 5 minutes and get different giphys until you find one you like?
@Kyeh @TK4TWO1 Yes. I did know that.
I agree that the story was a blast, and I’m glad Meh has brought back the Mehrathon story tradition. I was hoping that this was a compilation of it, though …
Multi-pack Madness: Across the Mehltiverse
Dale stood at the window, a rolled-up take-out menu in his hand, tracking a fly’s progress across the pane. He faced a conundrum: he needed the buzzing to stop, which meant striking the fly, but also, if he missed, the fly might leave the window and make its way toward the ceiling, where it would be even more difficult to strike down.
Just as the fly came to a stop and he slowly lined up his menu-turned-paper-club, he heard something: a shifting in the room behind him.
Dale turned around, quickly, sending the fly into a fury. But there was nothing, just his bookshelf. In front of a row of novels, an empty vase sat, precariously close to the shelf’s edge.
I’ll move that after I finish off this fly, Dale thought and went back to the task at hand.
Only the same thing happened again: as Dale was on the verge of a small execution, he once more heard a shift, this one coming from the kitchen to his left.
Again, he turned toward the noise and again saw nothing. In fact, he had that morning cleaned the counters. They were spotless, nothing on them at all except for another vase.
This same thing repeated two more times–the fly stopping, Dale preparing to attack, a small noise, and nothing to see except a vase in whatever direction he looked–before something occurred to Dale.
“I don’t own any vases,” he said to himself, the hand holding the rolled-up menu falling to his side.
That was when one of the vases, the one he saw first, on his bookshelf, spoke: “We’re not vases, Dale.”
“We’re you,” said another vase, the one in the kitchen.
“Other versions of you,” said a third vase, this one on the coffee table.
“From other universes,” said the final vase, on the ground next to Dale’s boots.
“You see,” said the vase on the bookshelf, “there exists something called–”
“The multiverse,” Dale said.
The vases fell silent.
“How do you know about the multiverse?” called the vase on the kitchen counter.
“It’s the plot of just about every movie right now,” Dale said.
“Oh,” said the vase next to Dale’s boots.
“Weird,” said the vase on the coffee table.
“Where I’m from, my universe, everyone’s really into videos of waves,” said the vase on the bookshelf. “It’s all that’s on TV. No multiverse stuff. Just waves, waves, waves.”
“Waves like the sound kind?” said the vase by Dale’s boots.
“Water,” the vase on the bookshelf said.
“Rogue ones?” called the vase from the kitchen. “The big kind at sea?”
“There’s something for everyone, really,” said the vase on the bookshelf. “Big tall ones, little ones, just water lapping around the shore of a lake. I know I likely sounded dismissive before, but they’ve done a great job, honestly, providing a diverse selection of entertainments.”
“Hey, could we get back to the thing about you vases all being me but from different universes?” Dale asked.
“Sorry,” said the Dale-vase on the bookshelf. “As we were saying, we’re you. We all are. In fact, despite there being an infinite number of universes, this is the only one in which you are human.”
“So in every other universe, I’m a vase?” Dale asked, scratching the back of his neck absent-mindedly with the rolled-up takeout menu. The fly had resumed its buzzing against the window.
“No,” called the vase from the kitchen.
“There are a few universes in which you’re an odor,” said the Dale-vase next to Dale’s boots on the ground.
“A good odor?” Dale asked.
The vases were silent again.
“Maybe don’t ask questions you don’t want to know the answer to, Dale,” said the Dale-vase on the coffee table.
“But Dale, we’re not here just to chat. A force threatens us, all of us,” said the Dale-vase on the bookshelf. “A force known as the Hammer of Dale Doom.”
“The Hammer of Dale Doom is traveling through the multiverse, destroying all the Dales,” said the Dale-vase next to Dale’s boots.
“And only you can stop it,” called the Dale in the kitchen.
“Why me?” Dale said. “Why am I the only one who can stop the Hammer of Dale Doom?”
“Because you have hands, Dale,” called the Dale-vase in the kitchen. Dale sensed a bit of frustration in his voice.
“You know,” said the Dale-vase next to Dale’s boots, “to pick up the hammer. And hold it. And stop it from smashing all the Dales.”
“I’m sorry,” Dale said. “I didn’t realize the Hammer of Dale Doom was a literal hammer. I thought it was maybe a metaphorical name.”
“This fucking universe, man,” the Dale-vase on the coffee table muttered to itself.
“Fine,” Dale said, his grip on the rolled-up takeout menu tightening with resolve. “I’ll do it. I’ll help you defeat the Dale Hammer of Doom.”
“The Hammer of Dale Doom,” said the vase on the bookshelf. “But, sorry, no that’s great. Here’s what we need you to–”
But before the vase could finish, the room filled with light. A machine appeared out of nowhere to Dale’s left, a machine with a door that swung open, revealing a slightly older version of Dale. “Dale, wait. I know you’re not going believe this but–”
“You’re me, from the future,” Dale said.
“How did you know?” said the slightly older Dale, his eyes growing wide with worry. “Did someone else travel here and tell you I was coming? Am I too late? Did you do the deed with the vases?”
“No, it’s just, you look exactly like me but maybe, like, eight years older.” Dale gestured over the older Dale’s shoulder. “And you arrived in a weird machine. And I can a screen through the door that says, ‘Arrived at Destination: 2023.’”
“Oh,” said future Dale.
“But wait, when you said, ‘do the deed with the vases,’ you don’t mean we all, like, you know, right?” Dale said.
Future Dale shook his head. “No, no, no. It was a poor choice of phrase. That would be super weird. After all, they’re vases, who are also versions of you. The psychology of that?” Future Dale made a gesture like an explosion.
“Well, great,” said the Dale-vase on the bookshelf. “Now, that we’ve gotten that out of the way, I think it’s about time to go fight–”
“But that’s what I’m here to warn you about that,” future Dale said to Dale, cutting off the vase that was also Dale mid-sentence. “These vases are you, Dale, but they’re not telling the entire truth. You see, what they will ask you to do after you eliminate the Hammer of Dale Doom? The acts of terror they will coerce you into performing on behalf of Dales throughout the multiverse? Let me just say, I’ve never regretted everything so much in my entire life. Not my time in the Intergalactic MurderCorps. Not the things I did in the Mars-Based Prison For Those Who Perform Space-War Crimes. Not even what I’ve been doing in the years since my escape, which is building this time machine and working on my cloning skills.”
“Wait, hold on,” Dale said. “You’re not that much older than me.”
“That’s the thing, Dale,” said future Dale. “Once you start jumping from universe to universe, carrying out the vengeance your alternate vase-selves cannot due to their having no hands or legs, it starts to affect the way time functions. The multiverse exists, yes. But we all live within our universe for a reason. Going from universe to universe disrupts things in ways you won’t be able to imagine. And… I’m sorry… I can’t concentrate with that damn fly buzzing in the window.”
The Dale from the future stepped forward, took the rolled-up takeout menu from present-day Dale, and smacked the fly dead. Immediately, a mustache appeared on his face.
“What the hell?” said future Dale to Dale. “Why did killing that fly make me grow a mustache?”
“I don’t know,” said Dale. “But isn’t that a thing? Like, in books? If you time-travel and step on a butterfly or whatever, it could have unforeseeable consequences.”
“How do you know that and I don’t know that?” future Dale said.
Dale made the ‘who knows’ gesture, and future Dale held up a hand. “I know what it was! I took a large piece of Manna Ore to the dome while working in debt collection on the planet Mantink-2 in the Epislorn galaxy. Remember this, Dale: don’t trust Trolik the Cyber-Shovel Salesman. He’s unreliable at best, and a true villain at worst.”
“Okay,” said Dale. “Well, the bathroom’s down the hall if you want to shave.”
“I know where the bathroom is, Dale,” said future Dale. “What I’m more concerned with is why would killing a fly would inspire you to grow a mustache?”
“I don’t know,” said Dale. “I haven’t made the decision to grow a mustache yet. Wouldn’t you have to ask a version of Dale that’s between you and me?”
Light filled the room again, and another time machine appeared. Another Dale stepped out. This one looked about the same age as the original Dale but a little… off.
“What about me?” said this new Dale.
“No,” said future Dale, stepping between Dale and the other Dale. “You won’t know. Because you’re from the past.”
“How can this Dale be from the past?” Dale said. “He looks pretty much exactly like me.”
“He’s from the past,” future Dale explained, “because he’s not really you at all. He’s a clone of you, one that I traveled back in time to create.”
“How did you go back in time and clone someone?” Dale asked.
“Simple: I brought all my cloning gear from the future,” said future Dale.
“Why would you do that?” Dale asked.
Future Dale shrugged. “Sometimes when you have a time machine, you make a sandwich and it’s just like, fuck it, let’s eat this thing in the 40s or whatever. But anyway, don’t worry. I was very careful. I made sure to put a freckle just under the right nostril of the clone, so I’d always be able to tell him apart from the real Dale.”
Clone Dale turned and examined his reflection in the mirror-like surface of his time machine. “But I don’t have a freckle under my nostril.”
“I do,” said Dale.
“Good god,” said future Dale. “Are you saying that I somehow imprisoned the real Dale in a tiny soundproof chamber all these years while the clone Dale has been running around in the real world?”
“Wait, you imprisoned the clone?” Dale (who might’ve been a clone) said.
“You told me it was a special room! For extra handsome guys!” said clone Dale (who might have been the real Dale).
“Or maybe I’m getting mixed up,” said future Dale. “Maybe I erased a freckle? Like I said, that space rock to the head. Lots missing these days.”
“Hey, fellas,” said the Dale-vase on the bookshelf.
“Holy shit,” said Clone Dale. “A talking vase!”
“You get used to it,” Dale said.
“I was just thinking,” said the Dale-vase on the bookshelf, “that the three of you seem to have some stuff to talk about and it might take a minute, so would you mind turning on some TV for me and the rest of us vases for other universes?”
“Sure,” Dale said. He went to the coffee table and grabbed the Roku remote, trying not to act too uncomfortable being so close to one of his other vase-selves. “What do you want to watch?”
“I’ve been really into the little waves pebbles make when thrown into bird baths,” said the Dale-vase on the bookshelf.
“I don’t think we have that here,” Dale said.
“Fine, ocean waves then,” said the Dale-vase on the bookshelf.
“Why don’t you just search ‘waves’ on YouTube?” said clone Dale.
“That sounds like something the real Dale would say,” said future Dale to himself.
“I just hadn’t thought of it yet,” Dale said. He went to YouTube typed in ‘waves’ and found a supercut of waves crashing.
“Sweet,” said the Dale-vase on the bookshelf.
“Can someone move these time machines?” called the Dale-vase in the kitchen. “I can’t see what’s happening.”
“It’s just waves,” said the Dale-vase on the coffee table.
“Why do you watch waves, anyway?” asked the Dale-vase down by Dale’s boots.
“It’s what we do in my universe, okay?” said the Dale-vase on the bookshelf, a little defensively.
Future Dale leaned in and whispered to Dale and clone Dale. “I’ve actually been to his universe, and, honestly, it’s just him who’s really into waves.”
“Wait, so am I the real Dale or not?” asked clone Dale.
“Ugh, okay, let me go to the lab I set up in the past and check my notes,” said future Dale.
He stepped back into his time machine, dialed some things in, and an instant later, it disappeared.
“I just want you to know, if it turns out I’m the real Dale, I’ll talk to him about the whole locked-up-in-a-tiny-room thing,” clone Dale said to Dale.
“Thanks, man,” Dale said. “I appreciate that.”
The room filled with light and the time machine returned. Future Dale stepped out and said, in Swedish, “Okay, it was actually that I erased the freckle.”
“Bummer,” said clone Dale in Swedish. “I was hoping to live a real life.”
“Why are we speaking Swedish and understanding each other all of the sudden?” Dale asked, also in Swedish.
“Dammit, I probably stepped on an ant or some shit,” future Dale said in Swedish. “And now we all speak Swedish here in Swedemerica, which is the name of our country, I believe. Probably doesn’t bear remarking on at any further juncture.”
“Weird,” Dale said in Swedish.
“You could’ve checked yourself,” called out the Dale-vase in the kitchen in Swedish.
“Who said that?” Clone Dale said.
“Another one of the vases that are versions of us from other universes,” Dale said.
“What did you say?” called future Dale.
“If you’re the real Dale, you could’ve checked your own face for a freckle, right?” called the Dale-vase in the kitchen.
“Uh, hello, the freckle is on my upper lip and I’ve got a mustache now, remember?” future Dale said.
“It’s all the time machines,” called the Dale-vase in the kitchen. “I can’t see anything in here.”
“I’m not totally clear on why the vases are speaking Swedish,” Dale said to clone Dale.
“We’re just talking however we have to so you understand us,” said the Dale-vase on the coffee table in Swedish. “If I spoke my actual language, it might honestly make your ears bleed.”
“We don’t even speak in my universe,” said the Dale-vase by Dale’s boots.
“Yo, are you guys seeing these white caps?” said the Dale-vase on the bookshelf. “Absolutely fucking killer. When we’re all done defeating the Hammer of Dale Doom, I might need to come back to this universe just to watch more of this.”
Just then, the room once again filled with light, though a strange sound accompanied this flash, a distinct sharp shing, as though a sword were being unsheathed. Dale looked around, fearful of where the new time machine would appear. The other two had avoided doing any damage, but they were running out of room. Another one might knock the TV off the wall or topple a bookshelf.
But no new time machine arrived. Instead when the light settled, there floated, just over the couch, a mean-looking hammer.
“Holy shit, a floating hammer!” said clone Dale. He looked around, trying to meet the eyes of one of his other selves–the one from the future or the one from the present–but he seemed disappointed that neither of them appeared surprised. “Seriously? A floating hammer? You guys are just like, ‘Oh, sure, whatever’? Is this stuff normal for people who aren’t cloned and locked away in little rooms?”
“I guess I sort of expected this eventually,” Dale said.
“And I lived through it before,” said future Dale.
“SILENCE!” yelled the Hammer of Dale Doom.
Now did all the Dales jump, except for the Dales that were vases, but even they seemed to take on a more frightened-looking vase-ness.
“I take it by your fear and reverence that you understand who I am, and what my purpose is,” said the Hammer of Dale Doom. “But I shall introduce myself nonetheless. I am the Hammer of Dale Doom, and it is my sole purpose in life–if you can use such a paltry word to describe my godlike existence–is to rid not just my own universe of Dale, but to bring doom upon all Dales the multiverse over, so that when I am finished, there shall be no memory of there ever being a Dale at all.”
“But there are infinite universes, right?” Dale said.
“I have my methods,” said the Hammer of Dale Doom.
“And wait, some of the Dales are smells,” Dale said. “How do you smash a smell?”
“Again, I say only: I have my methods,” said the Hammer of Dale Doom.
“Wait,” clone Dale whispered to future Dale. “We’re smells in some universes?”
Future Dale nodded.
“Good smells?” Dale whispered.
“Just drop it, okay?” future Dale said.
“And now, I have devised my most sinister plan yet,” said the Hammer of Dale Doom. “I have planted the idea among certain vase-universes to seek the help of human Dale, and you have thus led me directly not only to him, but his clone form and future human form as well.”
“Do you remember any of this?” Dale said to future Dale.
Future Dale shook his head.
“But you did help the vase Dales, right?” Dale said to future Dale. “And you lived to regret it more than anything, right?”
“Doesn’t ring a bell,” future Dale said.
“But that’s what you said!” Dale cried. “When you first arrived, you made this huge deal about how I shouldn’t let the vases coerce me into helping them.”
“Hmm, that sounds vaguely familiar,” future Dale said. “But you see, I probably should’ve mentioned this. There was incident a little while ago. Or, really, a long while from now. I was hit in the head by a space rock and–”
“Yeah, yeah,” Dale said. “We’ve been over that. Many times.”
“Well, I’m sorry to waste your time with my tragic memory loss,” future Dale said, his eyes welling up. “I’ll try to be more mindful in the future, except, oh wait, I won’t remember!”
“You won’t have use for your memory for much longer,” said the Hammer of Dale Doom. “For I shall soon render the ultimate Dale doom.”
“Wait,” Dale said. He turned to the Dale-vase on the coffee table. “You came to recruit me. So, I should be able to defeat this thing, right?”
“We haven’t done your training yet,” said the Dale-vase on the coffee table.
“But how would you train me?” Dale said. “You’re a bunch of vases.”
“Okay, first off, rude,” said the Dale-vase on the floor next to Dale’s boots. “Second, we have a chair thing. You sit in it, and we plug a cable into your head and feed you info on fighting techniques and stuff.”
“Like in The Matrix,” Dale said.
“Never heard of it,” said the Dale-vase next to Dale’s boots.
The Hammer of Dale Doom laughed and it shook the windows. “So you see, Dales, your destruction is inevitable. Therefore, you will not mind if I take a moment and tell you my story.”
“Sure, I guess,” said Dale.
“I was in my youth,” said the Hammer of Dale Doom. “Born to a poor mother who was a screwdriver, abandoned at an early age by my father who was a shoehorn. A carpenter, who was himself a saw, hired me to pull out mislaid nails. Never to hammer them in, mind you. I was only tasked with removal. The nail hammerer was another hammer, older, drunk on rubbing alcohol before noon, and bound to drive in nails all the wrong ways. It was a thankless life, and I earned barely a pittance, which I immediately gave to my mother so she could keep a roof over our head, if you could call it a roof, given it was made out of chicken wire.”
“I wouldn’t call that a roof,” said the Dale-vase on the bookshelf, who’d turned his attention from the waves on television for a moment. “In fact, I would call that almost the opposite of a roof.”
“One day, we were tasked with assembling a box,” said the Hammer of Dale Doom. “I could tell this was a special project for my employer made sure the nail hammerer remained sober for the duration. He hired a knife to come in and carve elaborate vines into the sides. Just as the knife finished, he slipped, nicking the handle of the saw, who had to be rushed to a hospital. The other hammer and I remained behind to await the buyer’s arrival. But without supervision, the other hammer began drinking and quickly grew intoxicated, leaving me essentially alone.”
“I don’t get it,” clone Dale whispered to Dale. “So, like, the saw could get injured? And are the nails alive? And the wood being carved?”
“I think it might be best not to ask questions and just let him get through this,” Dale replied in a hushed tone.
“As it would happen,” the Hammer of Dale Doom continued, “the purchaser, who was an enormous flowering bush, had come down with a cold, and so sent his daughter, who was a tulip, to retrieve the box. And immediately, when we saw one another, we fell deeply, madly in love.” The Hammer of Dale Doom paused. “Everyone following so far?”
“There are a few biological and/or genealogical issues that me and the other human Dales are dealing with, but otherwise, all good,” Dale said.
“It was poetic, really,” continued the Hammer of Dale Doom. “We both had round parts coming out of our faces, but while mine was hardened for a life of work and toil, hers was soft and silky, its purpose to be beautiful. I did not begrudge this. Because of her I understood that even if I were to drive all of the nails into all of the boards that existed, my contribution to the world would only be a fraction of what her radiance provided.”
“I’d rather have a hammer than a tulip, personally,” whispered clone Dale to future Dale.
“Shh,” said future Dale to clone Dale. “I think we’re getting to a dramatic part.”
“We are indeed,” said the Hammer of Dale Doom. “As you can imagine, her father did not approve of our love. She would sneak out at night, and we would meet under the grand oak in the park in the middle of the city in which we lived. She said we would run away. I said, but where? She said the sea. I said, but what if my metal bits rusted in the humid, salty air? And she said she would pay to have me polished. And I said, but what if her father cuts off allowance and we fall into poverty, and she said, we will always be rich with love for as long as we have each other.”
Dale looked around. Everyone paid rapt attention, except for the Dale-vase on the bookshelf who’d returned his attention to the waves on the television screen.
“We had such grand plans,” said the Hammer of Dale Doom. “But then, of course, the fateful day came. My love arrived at the shop and demanded we step outside. There, she tearfully told me that her father had arranged for her to marry someone else. Someone of her class. A vase. Named Dale.”
“Oh, shit!” clone Dale exclaimed.
“And that might’ve been the end of it,” said the Hammer of Dale Doom, “had this vase named Dale not stalked me through the street. On a crowded corner, he began berating me. He mocked me for being a lowly hammer, and one that only removed nails, never drove them in. He said I ought to be ashamed of myself for trying to soil the reputation of a good woman. He said I ought to be thrown in jail. And I was. After I struck him. It was barely a hit, just enough to make a small crack in his base. But I was arrested, and the shame of it was too much for my mother. She fell into a stupor from which she would never emerge. As for my love, she was but a picked flower. Though my sentence was short, I never saw her alive again. Needless to say, when I emerged from my cell, I vowed to destroy not just this Dale for good, but all instances of Dale across the multi-verse.”
“And that might’ve been the end of it,” said the Hammer of Dale Doom, “had this vase named Dale not stalked me through the street. On a crowded corner, he began berating me. He mocked me for being a lowly hammer, and one that only removed nails, never drove them in. He said I ought to be ashamed of myself for trying to soil the reputation of a good woman. He said I ought to be thrown in jail. And I was. After I struck him. It was barely a hit, just enough to make a small crack in his base. But I was arrested, and the shame of it was too much for my mother. She fell into a stupor from which she would never emerge. As for my love, she was but a picked flower. Though my sentence was short, I never saw her alive again. Needless to say, when I emerged from my cell, I vowed to destroy not just this Dale for good, but all instances of Dale across the multi-verse.”
@llangley Pt. 69 got repeated; here’s Pt. 70:
70
“Wait, flowers! That’s it!” cried the Dale-vase on the coffee table. “The Immensity Flowers! If we pick them and put one Immensity Flower in each of us vases, we will create a super-vase, one capable of crushing any hammer.”
The Hammer of Dale Doom cackled. “You fools! The Immensity Flowers are a myth! No one has ever even seen them!”
“I have,” said future Dale.
@Kyeh TYVM
…
) and realized there were A. Lot. More. 
but I’d gotten so far that I couldn’t just stop 
. By the time I was done I was going to read it all but I got sidetracked
I started out thinking there were 47 of them (why 47… Glavine,??
“You’ve seen the Immensity Flowers?” cried the Dale-vase next to Dale’s boots.
“Where?” called the Dale-vase from the kitchen counter.
“Not where at all,” said future Dale. “But when. You see, the Immensity Flowers grow in a liminal field, a place outside of time, but close to the 1980s. And I know how to get there. But we must act quickly, while I still remember, for I have something I need to disclose. There was an incident, with a space rock, and it’s caused some disturbances in my memory–”
“Ugh,” said the Dale-vase on the bookshelf.
“This again?” said the Dale-vase on the coffee table.
“Really?” said clone Dale.
“This is like the fifth time you mentioned it,” said the Dale-vase by Dale’s boots.
“Even I knew that,” said the Hammer of Dale Doom.
“I just wish I could see what was happening in there,” called the Dale-vase in the kitchen. “But it’s hard with all the time machines.”
“Okay, okay,” said future Dale holding up his hands. “I guess I might’ve mentioned the space-rock-to-the-head thing before. But the point stands: we gotta go. Dale and clone Dale, grab the vases, and get in the time machine!”
“No,” Dale said.
The room fell silent for the first time in a long time.
“What do you mean, no?” future Dale said.
“Are you worried it won’t defeat him?” asked clone Dale.
“It will definitely defeat me,” said the Hammer of Dale Doom.
“I don’t care,” Dale said, crossing his arms. “I’m not doing it.”
“What?” said the Dale-vase on the coffee table.
“Why?” said the Dale-vase by Dale’s boots.
“Because I’m so tired of all this shit,” Dale said. He turned to the Hammer of Dale Doom. “First of all, no offense, but could we please just allow villains to be villains again? Seriously, do we have to get every evil character’s humanizing backstory? Can’t there just be ‘bad guys’? Because let me tell you, in my universe there are plenty of assholes who are just assholes, and that’s that.”
The Hammer of Dale Doom hung his head. “Wow. So this is what I get for opening up.”
Dale ignored this, turning his attention instead to look from one vase to another (except the vase in the kitchen, who was blocked by clone Dale’s time machine). “And that’s the other thing. This multiverse garbage. Seriously, what gives? I liked Spiderverse as much as the next guy, but now it’s starting to feel a little lazy. And dishonest.”
“How is it dishonest?” asked clone Dale.
“Because it gives narratives the veneer of complexity,” Dale said, “when really it’s an easy excuse. The same franchises are rebooted year after year after year, and now we’re supposed to pretend it was all on purpose? Not to mention it provides storytellers with easy cop-out it-was-all-a-dream deus-ex-machina explanations that, again, falsely imply intricacy. Like, how come all these vases are immobile, and yet, the Hammer of Dale Doom can float and in his story, the inanimate objects could move on their own accord?”
“Oh,” said the Hammer of Dale Doom, “uhh, that’s because it was a different universe, one where different rules apply.”
“See?” Dale said, gesturing wildly to the room before his eyes set on future Dale.
“And you.” Dale turned his attention toward his future self. “You just had to find the Infinity Flowers–”
“Immensity flowers,” corrected clone Dale.
“You just had to find them near the 1980s, didn’t you?” Dale said. “Because we just can’t let that fucking decade die!”
“So, let me get this straight,” future Dale said. “You don’t want to save the universe. Because it’s too cliche.”
“Exactly,” Dale said.
“So what do you want to do?” asked future Dale.
Dale pointed to future Dale’s time machine. “I want you to use that thing to take me to the moment before any of this started, and I want all you other dipshits to leave me alone. Forever.”
“Could you give me five minutes?” asked the Dale-vase on the bookshelf. “The next wave video just started auto-playing, and I can tell this one’s gonna be packed tight with a whole bunch of real frothy gushers!”
“No,” Dale said.
Everyone in the room sighed and moaned but Dale remained steadfast, so eventually they agreed. Dale stepped into the time machine, future Dale set the coordinates, and away they went.
“Don’t forget this,” future Dale said, handing Dale the rolled-up takeout menu when they arrived at the moment before this all started.
“Thank you,” Dale said. Then there came a flash of light and he was alone, standing at the window, a rolled-up take-out menu in his hand, tracking a fly’s progress across the pane. He faced a conundrum: he needed the buzzing to stop, which meant striking the fly, but also, if he missed, the fly might leave the window and make its way toward the ceiling, where it would be even more difficult to strike down.
Just as the fly came to a stop and Dale slowly lined up his menu-turned-paper-club… nothing happened. The apartment remained quiet and still and devoid of any vases that were Dale or otherwise. Dale struck and the fly fell to the ground, and that was that. He forgot what he had originally planned to do with his day and, anyway, felt exhausted. So he sat down and turned on the television.
On the screen, a Chopped rerun finished up. There was something about the winning chef that reminded Dale of someone. After a moment, he realized it was because the man had a face shaped similarly to his own. Only, this chef had a thick mustache. It looked pretty good on the guy, actually.
Maybe I should grow one of those, Dale thought.
@llangley Yay! Thanks!!!
I probably fucked something up with all the copying and pasting…
@llangley
/image dale earnhardt smiling
@llangley Thank you!