Editor’s note: This story was originally published on Wattpad as an e-book experience for our community. However, since most in our community are too lazy to create accounts at third-party websites – we have adapted this work to blog form and have added new artwork to enhance your reading experience.
This was published on December 23, 2020 – some references may be dated.
Chapters
Acknowledgments
This book has been a labor of love from start to finish. When first approached about the project, I hesitated. I felt the material was too challenging, too layered, too dense, too nuanced for a mere amateur author such as myself. But thanks to the advice and encouragement of several worthwhile friends and colleagues, I am at last pleased to bring you The Fast and the Festive, Book One in The Professor Chronicles.
There are so many people I'd like to thank, I cannot possibly list them all, but a few prominent names spring to mind. First, I would like to thank Gladys, my wife of 60 years, for all her love, support, and dynamite Gin & Tonics – which kept me scribbling away for many a long lonely night. Secondly, I'd like to thank my grandson, who does not wish to be named, but who was kind enough to decipher my cryptic handwriting and type the manuscript into the computer for me. Thirdly, I'd like to thank Mr Bartleby, the editor-at-large of the Flappr Company, for all his hard work and dedication behind the scenes. (Although Mr Bartleby mentioned something about "maybe giving it away for free", I am quite assured he is an honest truthful man, and will not bilk me when he sees the abundant returns on the book sales.)
And lastly, I'd like to thank you personally, dear reader, for all the time and attention you've shown me these past seven or eight months or however long it's been. Maybe it's just the gin talking, or maybe it's the euphoria of seeing my first ever book published, but I'd be much remiss if I didn't mention...
...how fond I've grown of you all.
James O'Flannery
PROLOGUE
Budapest, Hungary – December 5th 2020 (7:00 pm local time)
It's the first snowfall of the year. Tiny flakes gently cascade from a murky sky. They land one by one upon the rippling waters of the Danube River, a long black ribbon cutting through the center of the old fortress city. The waxy lamps shimmer in reflection. The frosty air crackles through the trees.
Advent has just begun. Parishioners slowly stream from St. Stephen's Basilica after an evening service. There is heard laughter and conversation. Old friends bid one another farewell. Others embark on a round of Christmas shopping. Little can any of them guess that sudden explosive death lies buried just beneath their feet. But at precisely 7:04 PM, the detonator clicks.
Boom! The ground below the Christmas Market erupts in volcanic fury. A fireball lurches upward into the sky. Women scream. Men dive for their lives. Children wail in agony. When the smoke clears, thousands in the packed square lie dead or wounded.
And the snow. . . continues to fall. . .
Chapter One
Chappiqaw Creek, Chappiqaw County – December 6th 2020 (6:00pm local time)
A modest house stands at the end of a quiet shady lane. The rosebushes under the windows are perfectly trimmed. The green grass mowed to a precise half-inch in length. An unassuming Oldsmobile Cutlass Supreme sits parked in the driveway.
If you were to ask people in the neighborhood, they'd say the house belongs to James O'Flannery, a semi-retired history teacher of no small repute. Some of the neighbors had even taken his class when they were youngsters. All remembered him fondly – like a gruff uncle you're afraid-of at first, but come to respect as time wears on.
But what they couldn't tell you – what no-one could have told you – is that James O'Flannery once worked for the government. His frequent "business trips" might have gone unnoticed by the local community, but for over fifty years the deeds of "The Professor" had troubled the counsels of dictators and despots from Angola to East Timor. Ever hear of Contras? That was him. And it would've been a resounding success too had those spineless cocksuckers in Washington let him take the gloves off his beloved freedom fighters. The thought still made him sick to his stomach.
The Professor might've been an old warhorse now, but what a warhorse! His tall frame supports layer after layer of strong wiry muscles. His tawny hair is flecked with streaks of gray. His blue eyes still sparkle with the perfect mixture of charm and confidence. He's the spitting image of the debonair silver fox – and he knows it. He never fails to notice the divorcees at the Supper Club drooling after him whenever he comes in for the lamb-chop special. He could have any of them with a snap of his fingers. And who knows? Maybe he had (once or twice).
For the present, however, James pours himself a glass of Scotch for the evening and immerses himself grading papers. The subject for that week is the Battle of New Orleans, and as usual, the offerings are less than stellar. He allows himself a tiny smirk. One of his students has described Andrew Jackson as that 20 dollar bill guy. James uncorks his red pen for a juicy fat F.
Suddenly, a gruff voice sounds from the darkness behind him.
"Hard at work, Jimbo?"
It happens so fast it's like watching a blur. In a flash, James is on his feet in a fighting crouch, his left arm raised to fend off any blow, his right arm clutching a 7" fixed-blade SEAL-team combat-knife. But then James relaxes. A sly grin crosses his cold killer face.
"Dom. . ." he says in a gravely drawl, "I should've known. . ."
Out of the shadows steps an imposing bald man in his mid-forties. Dominic Toretto, codenamed "Dom", the leader of an elite vehicular infiltration unit and also in the employ of the United States government. He is a head taller than James and a little thicker, but nowhere near the embodiment of masculine perfection that is James O'Flannery. Judging by the way they speak to one another, you can probably guess that James and Dom have. . . history.
"How long has it been, old-timer?" asks Dom, an unsteady smile playing on his lips, "Eight years? Ten?"
"Try twelve, Toretto," answers James, coolly sheathing his knife, "Remember? That shit-show in Marrakesh?"
"Aw, hell, Jimbo. . . I'm still trying to forget it."
A beat. A pause. A chance for these two tigers to size each other up again, after such a long absence.
"How's Gladys?" asks Dom finally, trying to break the mood. Strangely, James looks away. His eyes dart to a framed picture on the wall. An old woman smiles from the photograph. Dom sees it and understands. "Oh. . ." he murmurs, "James, I'm sorry. I didn't know. . ."
"No, you wouldn't have known. I didn't tell anyone – anyone in our circle, I mean. It happened suddenly. She contracted a rare disease. Chronic Acute Nagititus. Basically she just nagged and nagged out of control until. . ."
". . .Man, that's rough. Well, at least she's in a better place."
"Yeah. . . " says James, after a long pregnant pause, "Anyways, what brings you out this way?"
(NOTE: Gladys is not dead in real life. This is just a story. For narrative purposes, I had to make James a widower, for reasons that shall be made clear later.)
Suddenly Dom's face grows stern. He pulls a newspaper clipping from his pocket. "You heard about Budapest?" he asks, handing the clipping to James.
"Yeah, I heard. Big goddamn mess."
"It's even bigger than you think, old-timer. This is only the beginning. I just got off the phone with the Joint Chiefs. They handed me a job straight from the top. I'm putting my team back together, Jimbo. . ."
James stares at the newspaper clipping for several long thoughtful moments. Finally, he passes it back. "So? What does that have to do with me? You know I got out of the game years ago."
"Out of the game?" repeats Dom, incredulous, "Jimbo, I know you. You couldn't hang up your spurs even if you wanted to."
"I SAID I'M OUT OF THE GAME!" erupts James with fiery passion, "Look at me! I'm old! I'm washed-up! Can't you get that through your head? What did you come to me for? You know I can't keep up with these youngsters and their mobile devices! I couldn't tell you the difference between a Tweet and a Twerk! I wouldn't be any help to you. . . I'd just. . . get in the way."
"Yeah, well, these youngsters couldn't handle an engine-swapped turbo-injected Buick Roadmaster half as good as you. They couldn't run for 96 hours straight with no sleep. They couldn't kill a man from 2,000 yards no-scope. They don't know anything about Shay's Rebellion, or the War of 1812, or the Zimmerman Telegram. . . They're lost in a sea of ignorance, and they need you, Jimbo. . . I need you . . . Your country needs you."
"You're too late, Dom. After Riga, I swore I'd never strap-it-up again. I made a vow and that's final." James turns his back to Dom and leans over his writing desk.
"Well, that's too bad, I guess," sighs Dom, "I could really use you, old-timer. And. . . Mia was asking about you."
"Mia. . ." repeats James to himself. He straightens up and turns. "I thought she married my replacement. What's his name? Brian?"
"She did. Brian's gone though. About five years ago. Lost him during that disaster in Belize." James looks carefully at Dom, but says nothing. "Anyway," continues Dom, "I'm on my way to the mission briefing. I have credentials for you. Maybe you could come just to advise. We're getting Taco Bell."
James spits on the floor in disgust. Dom laughs. "Still don't like Taco Bell, do ya, old-timer? Never mind, then, I'll get you a pastrami sandwich instead."
"I'll come," agrees James at last, "But only to advise, you understand. . ."
"You still driving that hunk of junk I saw outside?" asks Dom.
James breaks into a smirk. "Of course, what else would I be driving?"
He winks at Dom, and Dom nods. "Well, bring it along. It might come in handy. . ."
Chapter Two
Undisclosed Facility, Langley, Virginia – December 6th 2020 (10:00pm local time)
It's late. The stars twinkle above an inconspicuous airbase at the edge of Washington D.C. The roar of jet fighters taking-off and landing fills the night sky. At a security checkpoint, two cars approach the armed guards: the first is a gray 1970 Chevelle SS with oversized tires, the second is the so-called hunk of junk Oldsmobile Cutlass Supreme. The guards wave the two cars through. They drive towards a seemingly abandoned airplane hangar. The doors are slightly ajar and they drive inside.
But this is no ordinary airplane hangar. It's filled with advanced and sophisticated equipment. A specially modified cargo plane for vehicular insertion, for example. Also a line of street-racing modified Japanese cars and American Muscle cars. There are also several crates littered with NOS tanks and NOS-infused gadgets. A large flat screen display covers the far wall.
Standing in a semi-circle at the far end are members of Dom's elite team. There's Letty, a Hispanic-American operative from San Antonio (specialty: infiltration). Tej, a Black-American whiz kid from Sacramento (specialty: technology). Roman, another Black-American from Detroit (specialty: comedy). And Han, a Japanese ex-patriate from Tokyo (specialty: drifting).
Finally, there's Mia, the most beautiful woman on the planet (but also the smartest woman on the planet). She stands a little off to the side with her arms crossed over her voluptuous chest. She seems a little more anxious than the rest.
(NOTE: All the members of the team are wearing Santa Claus hats because they were just having a Christmas party. Also, I know that Han dies at the end of Fast & Furious 6 and/or the middle of Fast & Furious 3, but in my timeline, he's alive.)
The Chevelle and the Cutlass come to a stop before the team. Dom and James exit their respective vehicles. The team winks and nods amongst themselves when they see James emerge. He is now dressed in his old jungle camouflage, with multiple knives and weapons strapped to his legs, arms, and chest. A sniper rifle is slung over his shoulder.
"Damn Dom!" chuckles Roman, "Looks you got the Professor out of the old folk's home!"
"Yeah," adds Han, "but where's our Taco Bell?"
"Are you always hungry?" asks Tej, slightly annoyed.
"That's Han for you!" laughs Letty.
Mia says nothing, but flashes James a sidelong glance as he and Dom approach the group. James notices her – but naturally, pretends not to notice – because he's just that goddamn cool. Mia is also Dom's sister, just FYI.
"No Taco Bell yet," says Dom, "We've got work to do. Tej, have you got the link up yet?"
"It's coming through now, Dom," Tej answers.
After a moment or two of static, the screen resolves itself to display a video feed from the Oval Office. President Trump, ensconced firmly behind the Resolute Desk, greets the team.
"Hello, Dominic," says President Trump, "I see you've got your team back together
"It took a bit of convincing, sir, but I pulled it off. All present and accounted for."
"That's great. Really great," replies the President, "And I see you managed to get The Professor onboard too. Tremendous. How are you, James? My thanks for all your help with that Russian Dossier problem."
James nods, looking upwards at the screen. "It was my pleasure, sir," he answers, "I knew that thing was balderdash the moment I saw it.
"Thank you," says the President, "I am a very handsome man, why would I need to associate Russian hookers? And pee pee, it's a disgusting deep state hit job." "But now, back to business. Here's the latest landsat fly-by over Budapest."
As he speaks, the screen switches to picture-in-picture. A satellite image of the Budapest explosion is displayed beside the president.
"As you can see by the blast radius and manganese scorch marks, this was no rag-tag group of small-time terrorists. We're dealing with some really bad hombres here. They packed enough TNT into St. Stephen's Square to blast a hole the size of a football field."
"Those bastards," seethes Letty, "Que tu jodan a tu madre!"
"Very funny, Letty, I should use that in a tweet." the President quips as he reaches for his phone. "Latinos love me."
"Any idea on the perpetrators?" asks James, cutting to the chase, like always.
The President nods. "Based on local interrogation, we believe the terrorists to be connected to a splinter group affiliated with the DPRK."
"The North Koreans?" asks Mia.
"HAH, those rock growers wish they could pull something like this off," growls James, "No, this stinks of the Democrat Pedophile Recruitment Kampaign."
"Yes, it would appear so. From what we can tell, they're getting funding from George Soros and using the New York Times to run a disinformation campaign. In fact, several of their sleeper cells have already penetrated the country, calling themselves. . . Antifa."
"Damn man!" interjects Roman, "I knew that shit was bogus. . ."
"You're right, Roman," continues President Trump, "but it gets worse. We traced a cell phone call made just seconds before the explosion. It looks like it was made to the leader of the DPRK movement – the White Sheik himself."
"Hey Jimbo," interrupts Dom, "Wasn't that the guy you tangled with in Afghanistan?"
James flashes him a cold stare, as though a thousand terrible memories have just come flooding back to him. He nods bitterly. "Yeah, but he slipped away. He's the only fish that ever wriggled free from me. He's been underground ever since. Nobody knows where he is, although some say, he has ties to people in high places. . . People with, shall we say, deviant tastes. . ."
"What're you saying, Jimbo. . .?" asks Dom, "Do you think Jeffery Epstein was involved. . .?"
James narrows his keen eyes, but in the end can only shrug. "Like I said, I can't prove anything. And anyway, all that's ancient history – just like the Battle of Cannae." James turns his attention back up to President Trump on the video feed. "What's next, sir? Do we have any leads?"
"Yes, professor, it appears there is one lead. We can't say where the next attack will happen, but we do have positive intel it'll happen tomorrow. . . On December 7th."
"December 7th. . ." growls James through his teeth, "It'll be a Day of Infamy all over again."
"That's true," agrees President Trump, "Pearl Harbor. December 7th. Terrible. Very sad. After that, all sources indicate it'll be attack in a different city every day for the rest of December. We believe it's all part of the War on Christmas."
"Of course, it is," mutters James, spitting on the ground, "I warned the CIA about this years ago. First, it's Happy Holidays and Winter Sales Events, then it's no nativity scenes on public property, and next, what do you have? Terrorist attacks around the globe. Disgraceful."
"Yes, I know. That's the Democrats for you. Always so naive."
"And you're sure you don't know where the next attack will happen?" asks Dom.
"No, unfortunately we don't. That's why we need your team to head to Cairo immediately. We believe the White Sheik has set up operations there and we need you to flush him out. Pick up his trail and report back when you can. Oh, and this mission is classified. If any of you are captured by the DPRK's, we have to deny all knowledge."
"Understood," says James confidently, though the rest of the team seems uneasy.
"Good. I knew you'd understand, Professor. President Trump, over and out."
The video feed terminates into a whirl of static. The screen flickers a moment and zaps to black.
Chapter Three
Mediterranean Airspace, December 7th 2020 (2:00 pm local time)
A specially modified C-130 Hercules transport plane rumbles through the clouds. Far below, the calm azure waters of the Mediterranean Sea sparkle like a pool of diamonds.
(NOTE: For movie version, play Slow Ride by Foghat here. Or maybe Magic Carpet Ride by Steppenwolf. Either would work I think.)
As the C-130 chugs along – like a great freight train in the sky – the balmy shores of North Africa eventually appear on the horizon. Palm and fig trees mingle amidst the ruins of several failed empires, all looming magisterially over the sea. The coast has an ancient look, even from a bird's eye view – because it is ancient, one of the oldest places men have ever called their home.
Inside the cockpit, retired Four-Star Air Force General Chuck Horner (co-mastermind of operations Desert Shield and Desert Storm) mans the controls. James rides shotgun, peering forward with his tactical (also night-vision) binoculars. He slowly lowers them as the North African coastline comes into range.
"The desert never changes, does it, Chuck?" he mutters thoughtfully, "Same as when the Ottomans ruled these lands, and the Carthaginians before them, and the Phoenicians before them."
"Bet you'd never thought you'd see this place again, eh Jimbo?" replies General Horner.
"Never in a million years. . ." says James, pausing dramatically, "But anyway, thanks for the lift, old buddy."
"My pleasure, Jimbo. You know it's always an honor to serve with you. Too bad Schwarzkopf had to go so soon, otherwise, I know he'd be right here with us."
"Yeah, too bad. Why do the good have to go so young?"
Suddenly, a flurry of radio traffic crackles over the radio: "Foxtrot One to Mother Goose. Come in, Mother Goose. Over."
"Ah, that's our escort F-22 Raptors," explains the general, "Go ahead, Foxtrot One, what'd ya got?"
"Convoy of bogies heading east on the Cairo road. About fifteen vehicles, all heavily armed. Judging from their insignia, they're DPRK for sure."
"I see them," confirms James, peering through his binoculars again, "They're approaching the Great Pyramids of Giza – constructed in 2000 BC, as you're no doubt well aware. We'll have to head them off. Let's saddle up, Chuck."
"Just like old times!" exclaims General Horner, "'OORAH!"
James rises from his seat and hastily exits the cockpit. He makes his way into the cargo compartment where Dom and his team are waiting.
"Whatcha got, Jimbo?" asks Dom.
"It's a DPRK convoy," James answers, "Time to lock and load."
Right away, the team rushes to their respective vehicles, which are parked in a long line facing the rear of the plane. Dom's prized 1970 Chevelle SS is in the lead. Next comes James's Oldsmobile Cutlass Supreme, followed by Roman's Cadillac Escalade, Tej's Dodge Charger SRT Hellcat, Letty's 1979 Pontiac Firebird TransAm, Han's Mazda RX-7, and Mia's Subaru WRX.
With all the precision and professionalism of an elite special forces unit, the team enters their vehicles, fastens their safety belts, and turns on their walkie-talkies.
"Hey Professor," chirps Han, "You really think that old hunk of junk can handle a DPRK convoy?"
"Wait and see," replies James, "I'll show you what this hunk of junk can do."
The voice of Chuck Horner crackles over the radio as they make the final preparations. "Thirty seconds to intercept!" he informs them, "Godspeed!"
James makes the sign of the cross (as he always does before entering a potential hot zone) and kisses his medal of Saint Michael the Archangel (patron saint of soldiers).
Dom's voice sounds over the walkie-talkie. "You ready, old-timer?" he asks.
"Why'd I ever let you talk me into this," James responds, also over the walkie-talkie.
(NOTE: There is a lot of walkie-talkie usage in this part. If left unmentioned, assume a walkie-talkie is involved.)
Just then, the rear doors of the cargo cabin slide open. Air rushes into the compartment, jiggling the tie-down straps keeping the vehicles in place. Far below, the team observes mile after endless mile of sunbaked desert.
"Alright, team," says James, taking charge, "I want this smooth, sharp, and professional. Start your engines and wait for Dom's signal."
"When you egress the aircraft, I want a hundred feet of separation," adds Dom, "We deploy chutes at flight level 6000, everybody got that?"
"We're with you, Dom!" cheers Letty.
"All the way, brother!" says Tej.
"Damn man!" moans Roman, "Are we really going to do what I think we're about to do?"
The team revs their engines. Dom grips the steering wheel like a lion about to pounce. James stares like a wolf eyeing some unsuspecting prey. A short while later, the green All Clear light flashes on.
"That's the signal!" announces Dom.
"Punch it!" shouts James.
Dom slams his foot on the gas. The rear tires smoke and squeal as he pushes his Chevelle SS to the max. Then. . . The tie-down strap releases! The Chevelle surges forward. It bursts out the back of the plane and. . . dives into a freefall from 15000 feet!
Vroom! James and his so-called hunk of junk Oldsmobile dart out of the plane right behind Dom. He too enters a freefall.
Vroom! Vroom! Vroom! One by one, the other team members execute their daring vehicular high-altitude insertion operation. Han howls like a barbarian, half out of his mind. Roman screams like a little girl. Tej looks as cool as ice. Letty stares ahead with her sharp steely eyes, while Mia stares with her hauntingly gorgeous ones.
"Alright, everybody," says Dom, from within his plummeting vehicle, "Check your trajectory. Follow my lead for the drop points."
With that, Dom downshifts from second gear into first, then he turns the wheel a quarter-turn to the right. Little by little, the falling Chevelle banks to face east. The other team members likewise make the necessary adjustments – by turning the wheel, shifting into lower (or higher) gear, etc.
"Alright, perfect! Right on course!" says Dom, "Coming up on 6000 feet now. Deploy chutes on my mark. 3. . . 2. . . 1. . . Deploy!"
Dom yanks up on the handbrake, which is (of course) connected to the parachute mechanism, and with that – Whoomf! – an immense parachute billows out from the trunk. The canopy fills almost immediately, the ropes snap taut, and the Chevelle begins to glide gracefully through the air.
Whoomf! Whoomf! Whoomf! Dom's stunt is followed by the other team members – each pulling up on the handbrake – until six vehicles are suspended in the air, floating gradually towards the desert road below – where the dust plumes of the DPRK convoy have just become visible.
Except. . . One vehicle has not deployed its chute. . . It's the Oldsmobile! Dom glances to his left and watches (with horror) as the incomparable Cutlass Supreme – the best lines and contours of any mid-size American sedan – streaks toward the ground like a guided missile.
"Jimbo!" he shouts over the walkie-talkie, "You're below 6000 feet! Deploy your chute!"
"No, not yet," replies James, in perfect command. "Wait for it. . . Wait for it. . ." he mutters low under his breath.
Then, at the last possible moment, James yanks up hard on the handbrake. Whoomf! His custom-made American Flag parachute flutters open. Wham! The canopy fills and the Oldsmobile is jerked out of its hell-dive descent. James shifts into overdrive. He manfully steers towards the Great Pyramids. Above his vehicle, the Stars and Stripes fly high across the lifeless desert.
"Fancy trick, Jimbo," says Dom, "You almost gave me a heart attack!"
"That's what you get for eating at Taco Bell," replies James, as cool as a cucumber.
"Yeah, well, watch where you're headed. You're drifting from your drop point! You're gonna land right on top of the Great Pyramid of Pharaoh Khufu!"
"I know," replies James, "Dom, you take the lead echelon and stay on their tail. I'm gonna cut them off!"
"Damn Man!" shouts Roman, "The Professor's gone crazy!"
"Crazy like a fox!" answers James.
Wham! With a sudden lurch of steel and rubber, the Oldsmobile lands along the slopes of the Great Pyramid. In rapid succession, James pushes in the cigarette lighter (rigged to discard the parachute), and with a snap of metal clips, the parachute sails free. The Oldsmobile Cutlass is earthbound again, racing down the side of the Great Pyramid and kicking up a trail of loose rubble in its path. Nearby Bedouin traders cheer beside their camels.
Gazing ahead, James notices the DPRK convoy in the distance. He grins to himself. His plan has worked. He's gotten far ahead of it. Slamming on the gas, James rockets to the bottom of the pyramid, negotiates up and over several smaller pyramids, then whizzes right underneath the chin of the Sphinx. At last, he reaches the Giza-Cairo road. He swerves onto it and puts the pedal to the medal.
Meanwhile, Dom and his team pursue the DPRK convoy from behind. They weave and swerve as several DPRK terrorists – clad in Mujahadeen robes with turbans (that also have horns on them) – fire with machine guns from the tops of their vehicles. Bullets ricochet off the gravel road. Dust clouds swirl all around.
"Hey, watch it, man!" shouts Tej, dodging a burst of fire, "I just waxed and buffed this thing!"
"These DPRK punks sure mean business," adds Han, ducking out of the way of an RPG explosion.
"Han! Letty! You take out the truck on the right," commands Dom, trying to impose order on the situation, "I'm going to cut in front of the column on the left and purposely crash. That'll take out three of them at least."
"Damn Dom!" shouts Roman, "You always want to purposely crash!"
"You got any better ideas?" Dom shouts back.
"Hold that thought, gang," crackles the voice of James over their walkie-talkies, "I'm landed and out in front of them. I'm about to execute a Tango Charlie."
"What? Jimbo, that's nuts!" cries Dom.
"Dom, you and your team stay clear! I'll be coming in like a bat outta hell. . ."
"But your chances of pulling off a Tango Charlie are a million to one!"
"Never tell me the odds. . ."
Far ahead of the convoy, James prepares his intricately complex and very thrilling maneuver (of driving straight ahead at top speed). He also reaches back to release the valve on his secret weapon: a set of NOS tanks in between the front and back seats.
James guns the engine. The speedometer clicks up. . . 60mph. . . 70mph. . . 80mph. . . With nerves of steel, James steers straight ahead for the oncoming convoy. He's on a collision course! Beads of sweat drip from his brow, but his gaze never once flinches. His hands are rock-steady. . . Just like Gibraltar. The convoy draws nearer, and nearer, and nearer. James can recognize the Crescent-Sickle-Swastika insignia on the lead vehicle.
Then James flips the red switch on the center console, injecting NOS straight into his big V-8!!! Vroom! The Cutlass rears back onto its hide wheels at over 100mph!!!! Its two seconds to impact! The moment of truth. . .
(NOTE: I know the Oldsmobile Cutlass came with only front-wheel drive. This is called creative license.)
. . .At the last possible moment, the DPRK terrorists driving the convoy trucks swerve out of the way. The lead vehicles spin out of control and roll off the road. Boom! Boom! Boom! Several of them explode in fiery explosions, frying the cold-blooded bastards inside.
James cuts a swath of destruction straight through the convoy. Then he hits the brakes and masterfully pulls a donut, until he's facing the opposite direction. He accelerates again, just as Dom and his team catch up.
"Holy cow! How'd the Professor pulls that off?" asks Letty.
"I guess there's more to that Oldsmobile than meets the eye!" says Tej.
"Yeah, a whole lot more," adds Han.
"He's incredible!" says Mia, her cheeks growing very red.
Dom smiles to himself and shakes his head. The old warhorse's done it again!
"Hang on, team," says James, "Three more bogies to go. Chuck, if you're up there, we could sure use some backup. . ."
The voice of General Chuck Horner squelches over the radio. "Hell, Jimbo, I thought you'd never ask. Foxtrot One, bring in your full squadron. Let's light up the town!"
Less than a minute later, four F-22 Raptors streaking down from the sky. They sweep over the desert plains at well over Mach 2, sending sonic booms shivering across the sands. No need for missiles. They open up with their Vulcan 20mm rotary cannons, obliterating the remaining convoy vehicles in seconds.
However, just before the last DPRK truck explodes, three cloaked figures escape out the back on dirt-bikes. For the moment, their escape is concealed by debris from the blast. James and the team are too busy dodging falling hunks of charred twisted metal to notice.
"Angels on our shoulders," says James, watching the F-22's return to the skies. He adds into the walkie-talkie: "Nice work, flyboys. We'll take it from here."
"Hang on, Jimbo! Do you have eyes on this?" shouts Dom over his walkie-talkie, "Got three more. On dirt bikes. Looks like they're headed for Cairo. One of them has a white robe."
James peers ahead through the windshield and notices the three cloaked riders speeding away towards a medieval fortress overlooking the city.
"The White Sheik. . . Stay on them!" instructs James, "They're headed for the Cairo Citadel! Former castle and palace of the Mamluk Dynasty!"
By now, the fleeing DPRK leaders have almost reached the outskirts of the city. The hulking, mostly derelict Cairo Citadel looms ahead. James and the team gain on them, but they are slowed as the road begins to narrow amid the bustling city. They follow the DPRK leaders as best they can, but the dirt-bikes are more agile and soon disappear into the great sandstone gates of the Citadel.
Chapter Four
Cairo Citadel, Egypt – December 7th, 2020 (Sunset, local time)
James and the team wind their way up the narrow road to the Citadel, slowed down by the innumerable street bazaars and teeming crowds of the local inhabitants. James finds himself stuck behind a caravan of camels and forced to shout out of the window:
"Out of the way! Imshi! Imshi!"
Finally, he's able to negotiate a path between the camels. Dom and his team are right behind. They continue to fishtail around tight corners and weave their way further up towards the Citadel for another ten minutes or so.
(NOTE: Han is the best at this, since his Mazda is specially modified for drifting).
At last, they breach the main gates of the Citadel and emerge into the courtyard of the immense fortress. James swerves his Cutlass to a halt beside the three dirt-bikes. The DPRK leaders appear to have escaped on foot into the main castle itself.
"Alright team, looks like we got them cornered!" says James, "Han, Roman, Tej, Letty! You four set up a perimeter. Dom, watch my six, I'm going in!"
James bolts out the door like a streak of lightning. Dom is right behind him. Meanwhile, the other team members take up positions as DPRK terrorists emerge from their hiding places. A firefight breaks out almost immediately. James and Dom dodge streams of bullets as they whiz menacingly through the air. Somehow, they make it to the front doors unharmed.
"Jesus, Jimbo!" shouts Dom, as they grab cover inside the doorway, "It's like Grenada all over again!"
"Don't remind me," replies James, locking a magazine into his selective-fire M4A1 Carbine, "C'mon old buddy, it's payback time."
(NOTE: For movie version, play Rock the Casbah by The Clash here.)
James and Dom infiltrate the Citadel, taking cover and returning fire at hordes of DPRK terrorists, who repeatedly (and stupidly) expose themselves when shooting. Within minutes, they've killed at least a hundred men. Dom blasts away with his 8-guage pump-action shotgun. James fires regular bursts from his carbine. It's a goddamn massacre. They clear room after room, proceeding further into the DPRK stronghold. . . the lair of the beast. . .
Along the way, they notice stockpiled high-tech equipment: such as large computer terminals, crates of plutonium, arrays of beakers and flasks, and so on.
"What's going on here?" asks Dom, "Are the DPRK's making a bomb? Look at all this stuff!"
"I don't know, but I don't like the looks of it," murmurs James, "C'mon. We're almost through."
James and Dom penetrate into what appears to be the central control room of the DPRK Headquarters. It is, in fact, the former throne-room of the Citadel. From their vantage point along an upper balcony, they gaze down at a most peculiar sight.
Large heavy-duty electrical cables crisscross the floor every which way, all funneling towards an otherworldly device standing in the center of the room. It is about six feet high and three across, made of some reflective titanium alloy. A swirling green energy crystal pulses in the center. The three DPRK leaders are hunched around this device, making hasty adjustments to numerous control panels surrounding it.
"Just what the hell is that thing?" whispers Dom, "Is that for the War on Christmas?"
James grimaces. "No idea."
"And what are they doing now?" asks Dom, scratching top of his bald head. He and James watch as the two DPRK henchmen open their robes and allow the leader to closely examine their private regions.
"It's a ritualistic penis inspection," replies James, "Standard protocol for the DPRK. Every hour on the hour."
"Penis inspection? But why?"
"Trust me, Dom, you don't want to know. . . Alright. Now's our chance. Watch my back while I get the drop on our three amigos down there."
Then the Professor leaps from the upper balcony, does a triple somersault on his way down, and lands directly behind the cloaked figures. The two figures (the ones with their junk exposed) quickly cover themselves up, while the startled leader spins on a dime. James flashes each of them a devastating smirk.
"Okay, you've showed me yours. . ." he says, loading a fresh magazine into his carbine, "Time for me to show you mine."
Then he cocks his weapon. Ker-Chunk! So flipping badass!
"Well, well, well," says the leader, who is (of course) also the White Sheik, "If it isn't Professor James O'Flannery. . . Forgive me if I haven't left you any milk and cookies. . ."
"That's okay," replies James, "You three are on my naughty list anyway. . . It's over, White Sheik. Come quietly and I'll make sure you get a nice cozy cell at Club Gitmo."
"Cute, Professor. . . But I'm afraid Gitmo's the last place I'm headed. You really have no idea what you've walked into, do you?"
"I know you're behind the attack on Budapest, and unless I'm very much mistaken, you're preparing the next bomb for your follow-up target. Looks like we got here just in time."
"Ha!" laughs the White Sheik coldly, "You really think that's what this is about? A handful of bombs blowing up a handful of cities? No, that's merely deception to throw the authorities off the scent – which, by the way, seems to have worked perfectly. No, no, my slow-witted Professor, I have much bigger fish to fry. There is one – and only one way – to cancel Christmas forever, and that is to cancel the very first Christmas. . ."
James glances from the White Sheik to the mysterious device (with the glowing crystal) and back again. In very short order, his immense intellect puts two and two together.
"What are you saying. . .?" he begins, "You mean. . . That thing. . . Is a time-machine. . .?"
"Ding, ding, ding, we have a winner!" laughs the White Sheik.
James stares aghast, utterly horrified at his ghastly plan. "You're a madman!" he exclaims, "You're absolutely outright mad! This is insane! It's balderdash!"
"A madman am I?" cackles the White Sheik in response, "And just why do you assume I'm a man?"
Then the White Sheik reaches up, removes the hood and face-wrappings, and drops them to the ground. James staggers back, truly at a loss for words. He has come face-to-face with his mortal enemy. The shrillest, nastiest, most egotistical woman ever to walk the face of the earth. . .
"Hillary Clinton!" he gasps in sheer astonishment.
And indeed it is. Hillary flashes him a wide toothy grin of pure malevolence. The sight is so goddamn nauseating, James immediately hunches forward and vomits all over the floor. He recovers in time to witness her two henchmen remove their head coverings likewise: revealing Bill Clinton (who looks hypnotized) and Jeffery Epstein (wearing a nefarious eyepatch).
"Yes, it's been me all along," explains Hillary, "I formed the DPRK organization decades ago – to take over America and turn it into a feminist socialist republic. But then I met Bill, and I thought to myself, perhaps there's an easier route to power. Bill was an up-and-coming politician then. Wouldn't it be easier if I married him and let his name recognition carry me to high office? Bill was only too happy to oblige. He's so easy to control, really. Just throw him a hefty young gal every now and then, and he'll do anything you ask him to. Isn't that right, Billy Boy?"
"Yes, mistress," murmurs Bill Clinton, almost as if he were under some form of mind-control, "Your wish is my command. . ."
"Which, of course, required the services provided by my lecherous friend Jefferey here," continues Hillary, "He supplied me with the fresh meat – shall we say – necessary to compromise powerful officials and business leaders, and in return, I used my influence to protect him from prosecution. It was all so perfect. So ingenious! We ran our first tests from the Benghazi installation. Everything was going swimmingly. But then, that stupid orange man with the ridiculous hair had to come along and spoil everything!"
"He should've locked you up when he had the chance," growls James with a grimace.
"Yes, but it's too late now. My plan is almost complete. Thanks to Jeffery's connections in the scientific community, I was able to obtain this time-travel device." She motions to the mysterious object in the center of the room, which is now whirring and pulsing with electric currents. "In just a few more seconds, it'll be fully charged, and then I'm off to. . . Oh, I don't know. . . Let's say Bethlehem, 0 AD. . . I'm afraid poor old Mary and Joseph are going to have a lot more trouble than an inn without any room. . ."
"But why, Hillary?" asks James, "Why join the War on Christmas? What has Christmas ever done to you?"
"Because!" she snaps, "Because it's an affront to all that's progressive! People shouldn't worship the Son of God, they should be worshiping the State and its Officials! People shouldn't be singing Jingle Bells, they should be singing The Internationale! Families shouldn't get together to share a meal, they should be staying in their government-sanctioned cubicles, awaiting their government-mandated rations! Matter of fact, there shouldn't be any families at all! In my perfect future, without any Christmas, children will be grown in test tubes, and educated entirely by public schools, and finally we will have a perfect society of mindless drones ready to carry out the great tasks of the State. We will end climate change, ban all firearms and automobiles, and everyone will have free healthcare, and no-one will ever tell an offensive joke – because they won't even know what a joke is. . ."
At this, Hillary throws her head back like a jackal and cackles incessantly. The sound is so nerve-racking, so indescribably diabolical, that even Bill and Jeffery wince in pain. James finds his ears ringing at the hideous Mephistophelean laughter. The ground seems to waver beneath his feet. He feels woozy and sick to his stomach. He tries to aim his carbine, but his vision is cloudy.
Finally Hillary ends her monstrous cackling, but the disorienting effect lingers on. James falls to one knee and struggles to lift himself. Through his hazy vision, he can just barely discern Hillary barking orders and pointing to a panel on the side of the time-travel device.
"Do it, Bill! Activate the device!" she snarls.
"I-I-I can't, mistress. . . It j-j-just isn't right. . ." whimpers Bill, clearly fighting against the power of her brainwashing. "I-I-I agree with some of your points. . . b-b-but you can't take Christmas away. . ."
"Do it, Bildo (a name she uses to deride him, it's a combination of Bill + Dildo)!" she roars, "Or there will be no adrenochrome dose for you when you get home."
Trembling and shaking, Bill reaches for the control panel – but suddenly grabs his arm with his other hand. Like a man at war with himself. . .
"No! I won't do it!" he shouts, regaining his agency, "We might have our political differences, but at the end of the day, we're still fellow Americans! We're still products of Western Judeo-Christian culture!"
Hillary rolls her eyes. "Oh, what a useless pawn you've turned out to be! Well, I guess if a woman wants something done, she has to do it herself."
Then she shoots Bill three times in the back. The man moans in pain and crumples to the ground. Meanwhile, Hillary runs to the side of the time-machine and hurriedly inputs coordinates herself. The crystal in the center of the machine begins to zap and crackle with green electricity.
"Hold them off, Epstein! Until the spacetime matrix forms!"
"With pleasure, madame," replies Epstein silkily.
Next, Epstein produces an AK-47 from beneath his robes and begins firing at random. James ducks for cover. Just at that moment, more DPRK goons emerge from their hiding places. Another firefight breaks out, with James trapped in the center of it all.
"So long, Professor!" shouts Hillary Clinton, as the time-machine surges to full power, "I know you're an expert in Western Civilization and all, but I think you'll find there'll soon be a few adjustments to your textbooks!"
With that, a flash of green light fills the chamber. There's a zap. A flare of electrical energy. And then. . . Hillary and the time-machine are gone. Only a smoking empty patch of floor remains. . .
Chapter Five
Cairo, Egypt – December 7th, 2020 (4:00pm local time)
James, still prone on the ground, looks up at the pandemonium unleashed by the nefarious Hillary. Above and around him, Dom's team fights back at the remaining DPRK terrorists. Some ways away, Bill Clinton writhes in a pool of blood, while Jeffery Epstein leads and directs the forces of chaos.
Filled with furious anger, James leaps to his feet and joins the firefight. The battle grows intense. No matter how many DPRK goons are shot down, seven more leap up to take their place. But at last, the tide turns. By this point, the floor is littered with shell casings, some of them still smoking, interspersed with the bodies of DPRK terrorists, piled up in heaps. James has run out of ammo for his carbine, so he's switched to one of his numerous pistols. He moves towards the center of the room, making sure to check his corners for ambushes, but then he hears a sound. . .
James pivots and finds Epstein standing alone with a hostage. . . It's a teenage girl. . . She squirms helplessly, her neck caught in the crook of Epstein's elbow.
"Drop the weapon, Professor," says Epstein, "Drop it. Or the girl dies."
"Please! Leave me alone!" the girl screams, "I don't want to die! I just want to do my homework and listen to Carrie Underwood!"
"It's over, Epstein," says James, "Your boss has flown the coop. Do you really think you're going to escape?"
"Why not?" answers Epstein, "I got out of my last jam, if you recall. Besides, the point still stands: Drop the gun, or the girl gets it."
James grimaces. He motions for Dom and his team to stand down.
"There's a good boy," says Epstein, now pointing his gun at James, "You know, you're just like my pool cleaners. They always do as they're told. . . Which reminds me, I've got a whole island of sweeties just aching for me to get back."
A vein above James's temple starts to throb with rage. He moves to holster his sidearm – but at the last second, he raises it and fires a single perfect shot.
Epstein falls back, struck in the leg. The teenage girl (completely unharmed) scampers away to safety. Meanwhile, Epstein curses and moans and wriggles across the floor like the lowly twisted worm he is. James approaches and looks down. He's sure to keep his .50 caliber Magnum Desert Eagle (a gift from the Prime Minister of Israel) trained on the scumbag.
"Damn you, Professor!" seethes Epstein, "Damn you and your perfect 20/20 vision! That was a one-in-a-million shot!"
"I guess that's why they call me Eagle Eye," answers James.
"Oh, you think you're so high and mighty, don't you, Professor," Epstein rages on, writhing about to face him, "But how clean is your conscience, hmm? How many hearts have you broken?"
"Maybe a few, but I never messed with any kids," replies James coolly.
"But are we so very different. . . you and I. . .? Oh sure, you'll show a woman the time of her life, but do you ever call her again? No! Think what you will about me, I always shower my girls with. . . special attention. . ."
"Tell it to Netflix," answers James pitilessly.
Then he shoots Epstein fifteen times IN THE CROTCH.
"They like that sort of thing," he adds, as smoke wafts from the barrel of the Desert Eagle. He spits on the corpse and pivots away.
Right afterwards, the teenage girl runs overjoyed into his arms. "You're my hero, Professor O'Flannery!" she exclaims with a big smile.
"There, there," says James, patting her kindly on the shoulder, "Just remember, when you get back stateside to do your reading. There's nothing you can't accomplish when you set your mind to it."
"I will!" she says, "You're the coolest history teacher in the whole wide world!"
Then Letty and Mia arrive with a blanket and a first-aid kit. "C'mon," says Letty, "This way. We'll get you cleaned-up." They lead the girl away, but as they go, Mia glances over her shoulder. She gives James a look of unqualified admiration with her sparkling beautiful eyes.
The moment is interrupted, however, by Dom. "James, you'd better get over here," he says.
James turns to find Dom and Roman crouched beside Bill Clinton, who is apparently still alive and fighting for life. James moves immediately to their side.
"P-p-professor. . ." whispers Bill, as James joins Dom and Roman beside the ailing ex-president, "I-I-I'm sorry. . . it had to come to this. . . I should've listened to you. . . You tried to warn me. . . back during the Somalia and Kosovo operations. . ."
"That's alright, sir, but you need to save your breath," replies James, "We need to get you to a hospital."
"N-n-no, it's too late for me," he stammers, coughing up mouthfuls of blood, "But there's still a way to stop her. . . There's still a way to s-s-save Christmas. . ."
"Go on," says James.
"There is. . . another. . . time-travel device. . ." he explains, "It was an early prototype. . . It will open a wormhole in the spacetime continuum. . . B-b-but in order to use it, you have to be traveling at fast and furious speeds. . . We tried attaching it to several vehicles. . . But we never did get it working. . . We just didn't have any drivers. . . with balls big enough. . ."
"But where is it?" asks James pointedly, "We need to know!"
"We moved it. . . after the Benghazi fiasco. . . to Bangkok, Thailand. . . Epstein had some business arrangements there. . . I can give you its exact location. . . It should be unguarded. . . Please, you must h-h-hurry. . .! Stop Hillary before she. . . cancels Christmas!"
Then Bill Clinton collapses backwards. Blood oozes from his mouth. A short while later, the former president dies.
James rises slowly to his feet. "You know," he says, "I didn't like him at the time, but looking back on it, America could've done a lot worse."
Dom nod. "Well, it looks like we stopped the December 7th attack, at least. Time to head to Bangkok, I guess."
"Yeah, and grab a drink."
Chapter Sex
Bangkok, Thailand – December 20th, 2020 (9:00pm local time)
The broad choppy waters of the Chao Phraya, the river of kings, flow lazily past the modern skyscrapers and traditional Siamese buildings of Bangkok. The immense city, a curious combination of East and West, old and new, glitters in repose as the setting sun sinks below the horizon.
Along the riverside, a swanky hotel bar hums to life. Vacationing westerners hit the dance floor with their escorts, shall we say. Not James O'Flannery though. For him, this is a business trip. He stands at the bar – like a man – and sips his whiskey and soda. Looking across the crowd, he wonders how many of the drunken sex-starved morons know their new lady friends are not even ladies. He made that mistake once before – and it wasn't pretty.
A moment or two later, Dom arrives beside him. "Good news, Jimbo," he says, "We found the second time-travel device."
"Nice work," replies James, "Now let's pray Tej can get it working by tomorrow."
"He's on it," explains Dom, "He and Han have already modified it to run on NOS instead of plutonium, so we should have plenty of fuel."
"That Tej is a whiz kid," says James, downing the last of his drink, "Alright, keep me posted. I'm going to get me some shut-eye."
Dom laughs at this. "Feeling your age there, old-timer?"
James smirks in response. "No, no, just have a few more papers to grade, that's all."
Later on, James enters his hotel room. The droning beat from the club scene bounces in the distance, but Dom is right. The Professor is starting to feel his age a little bit. Maybe if he were younger, say 65, he would've been right in the middle of it. Instead, he tosses his keys onto the nightstand and heads to the balcony with a bottle of Johnnie Walker. Time to unwind.
He slides open the door, pours himself a glass, and gazes out over the city. A cool breeze slides along the river, bringing a whiff of sea air from the Gulf of Thailand. The palms along the riverside wave gently beneath the twinkling stars. James takes it all in, absorbing every detail.
But then he's startled by a soft voice behind him.
"James. . . You've been avoiding me. . ."
James turns to find Mia standing in his room doorway. She wears a Naughty Santa negligee of made of see-through red satin, which hangs loosely from her shapely shoulders, barely covers her soft golden skin, and hugs every curve of her sleek sensuous body.
She wears a Naughty Santa negligee of made of see-through red satin, which hangs loosely from her shapely shoulders, barely covers her soft golden skin, and hugs every curve of her sleek sensuous body
James notices movement in the downstairs department. Still, he's too much of a man to betray even a hint of emotion. "I thought that's what you wanted," he says, looking away, "I thought that's what you asked me to do, remember? All those years ago?"
Mia glides further into the room, her elegant strides highlighting every angle of her gorgeous amazing figure. "Yes, that's what I wanted," she replies, "But all that's in the past now. Don't you see all we have is this moment? Here, halfway around the world, with only each other?"
Now James advances on her. He approaches until they are standing so close, their noses almost touch. He can almost hear her heart beating. "And what would you like to do in this moment?" he asks her, "With Christmas on the brink of destruction, and the whole world crumbling down all around us?"
Oh, I dunno. . ." she says coyly, playing with her hair in that irresistible way women sometimes have, "I thought you might have some ideas. . ."
James looks deeply into her eyes – those enchanting beguiling eyes – and he falls bewitched. He can scarcely help himself. He places his hard calloused hands upon her soft supple shoulders, leans in slowly, and kisses her passionately. Mia returns the favor with every ounce of her own considerable passion. The pair sway gently, then ever more sensually, as the embrace builds and builds.
At last, they break apart – slowly, gently, savoring every moment. Mia looks at James as though she could melt in his arms. "By the way, I thought it was very brave what you did," she says, "saving that girl from Epstein like that."
"I did what any man would do," replies James stoically, "What any REAL man would do."
"Yes, you did," answers Mia, "And do you want to know a secret? As I watched you shoot your big, hard, gun over and over again, I have to say. . . I may have soaked my drawers a little bit. . ."
"Is that a fact?" says James slyly, advancing again.
Mia playfully draws back. "I'd never lie to you, James."
"Well," continues James, laying Mia gently upon the bed, "I know a special treatment for that kind of problem. . ."
"Oh, doctor. . ." whispers Mia mischievously, "Do you mean it's time for my injection. . .?"
"Maybe," replies James, "Let's just say I need to. . . inspect the area first. . ."
Then James tears off her red dress with his hard powerful hands. Mia gasps with excitement. More clothes start flying off. James's shirt. Gone. His camo pants. Gone. His tactical belt. Gone. Professor O'Flannery, fully nude now (except for the snub-nosed pistol he always keeps on his ankle-holster), revels in the delight of the air upon his naked body. Mia quivers at the sight of astonishingly chiseled physique.
(NOTE: For movie version, play Let's Get It On by Marvin Gaye here.)
Though he's had women from Timbuktu to Singapore, of almost every shape or size, there was something about Mia that always made him feel like he's a boy scout again – that he was experiencing every kiss, every smile, every movement for the very first time.
As their lips lock in tender embrace, James moves his skillful fingers up her sides until he finds her soft bountiful bosom. His thumbs find her most sensual spots and make regular gentle circles around them. The first delicious moans escape Mia's lips – that most beautiful sound in the entire world – and James finds his flagpole standing at attention.
"Phew, I'm glad I popped that Viagra after dinner!" he thinks to himself, but of course, he doesn't mention this.
He kisses her. Every square inch of her. Starting with her fingers. Working his way slowly and gently down her arm, then down her ribcage, across her waist, and down her leg until he reaches her toes. Then he goes around the horn. Up the other leg and back again.
"Oh. . . James," she squeals. And James feels his cannon throbbing in a way it hasn't in years.
Then James pulls Mia to the side of the bed. He takes a knee on the floor and pushes her legs apart slowly, sensuously, until they are spread as wide as possible. Mia nearly climaxes from the experience of feeling so very open, so very exposed, so very much at this man's mercy. . .
James reaches in with his skillful steady hands. The folds of Mia's perfect pink tulip open up to him. Her juices glisten like morning dew upon the petals of a rose. At the first whiff of her aromatic musk, James's baseball strategy falls apart like a house of cards. Her scent drives him wild with lust. He is now more beast than man. . . He has to have her. . . He has to taste a drop of that sweet, sweet honey. . .
Without warning, James slams his face into the folds of Mia's beckoning flower. She climaxes almost immediately. Waves of shivering joy run up and down her spine, as she moans and whimpers in ecstasy. James feels the excitement pulsing throughout her body, as he adeptly moves his tongue up and down, reaching into every crevice, swishing in circles like a ravaging tornado. Then he moves upwards to the top of the mound and finds. . . the devil's doorbell.
Oh, he rings it, alright.
He rings it again and again and again.
He wantonly suckles her sugar plum until Mia grasps the back of his head, begging him to stop. He rises upward and regards the trembling delicate beauty laying wide-open before him. By now, his rocket is ready to blast-off. We're at T-Minus ten seconds and counting. All he needs is mission control to give the go-ahead. Mia looks deeply into his eyes and nods. It's time to light this candle.
James glides in with all the control and confidence of a veteran lover. Even so, he is stunned by the sensations at work upon him. Mia is like no other woman he has ever felt. Her warmth is incredible. Her organ receives him effortlessly and yet grasps tightly at the same time – almost as if she were pulling him ever closer, ever deeper, eager to know every inch of his rock-hard love.
The thrusting begins in earnest. James sets a steady pace for himself, what he assumes is a relatively gentle rhythm. But of course, Mia is out of her mind with ecstasy. She grasps uncontrollably at the sheets of the bed. She bites her lower lip. She arcs her head back onto the pillow. This goes on for a good half-hour, until both climax in unison, drowning each other in a sea of mutual euphoria.
But this is only the eye of the hurricane. . . The two lovers aren't even close to finished yet.
Once she has caught her breath, Mia stands and walks completely naked to the balcony door. James stares longingly at her the contours of her body in silhouette created by city lights of Bangkok. She rests a hand against the frame of the balcony door, leans her chest forward and looks devilishly backwards.
"Ready for round two?" she asks, tossing her gorgeous hair.
"You know it, darling," answers James, rising to join her.
This time, the motions are, far, far, far more vigorous. Whereas their first coupling took the form of sweet gentle love-making, this second coupling rapidly spirals into a primal eruption of dark carnal forces. Within minutes, both bodies are drenched in sweat. Mia finds herself too exhausted to support herself and completely bends over the window sill, yielding totally to the goddamn freight train of a man behind her.
James finds himself weary too, but some deep primitive force has taken hold of his brain. He reads Mia's cues and recognizes he has the green light. It's time to really put the pedal to metal. He digs his hands into her hips and shifts his body into overdrive. Overcome with passion, he grunts and roars like some savage animal. Mia sings and warbles like a beautiful songbird.
The room shakes from their effort. The floorboards creak. The chandelier rattles. Echoes of their fiery embrace echo and reverberate across the sleeping city. Even by Bangkok standards.
. . . This shit is pretty wild. . .
The motion builds and builds to a roaring epic crescendo. James feels the blood pumping furiously through his veins. His muscles instinctively seize and clench. The old warhorse is coming round the homestretch now.
Further below, he can feel wave after wave of contractions guiding him to the finish line. Mia screams at the top of her lungs, completely carried away with rapture. And James knows. . . He's got her. . . She's completely his. . . forever and ever.
It might be the most satisfying thought a man can possibly have.
There follows a final surge. A throaty howl rends the night. It is joined by a piercing cry of pleasure. The two voices, like the two hearts, are enmeshed in wondrous indescribable delight. Fluids gush and flow and pass between the two bodies. And then. . . calm descends upon the scene.
Mia shudders uncontrollably, momentarily unable to speak, unable even to stand. James dismounts slowly and sensually. Then he lifts Mia in his arms and lays her quivering and trembling upon the bed. He lays beside her and wraps his arms around midsection.
He kisses the nape of her neck softly. He tastes the salt of her sweat. He smells the lingering scent of lavender in her hair. He asks himself if he ever loved anyone half as much as the sultry minx pressed against him. "No," he answers himself, "She is the very best."
But they still aren't finished yet.
After lying together for a while, holding each other as tightly as either have ever held anybody, their mutual excitement is kindled again. They'd done it gently once. Then they'd done it hard. Now it was time. . . to get a little nasty.
This time (and subsequent times), all caution is thrown aside, all inhibition. They boldly explore each other's bodies, kissing and touching every fold, every crevice, every orifice. They let their imaginations run wild. Hour after hour, they make filthy, out-of-this-world, once-in-a-lifetime love. Skin is rubbed raw and joints ache from the strain of so many exotic difficult positions. By the end, the bed is utterly destroyed. The room is completely trashed. The place smells like a barn, the musk of nearly every human secretion present in the air.
And yet, they keep going. . .
They don't stop until dawn breaks on the horizon. And in the monastery below, the Buddhists commence their morning prayers. . .
Chapter Seven
Rural Highway, Thailand – December 21st, 2020 (8:00am local time)
Dom and his team wait along the shoulder of the deserted highway. Letty looks to the horizon, as though they were expecting someone. Meanwhile, the team's vehicles are lined up and ready to go. Dom, Tej, Han, and Roman make last minute preparations to the time-travel device (which now has several cannisters of NOS strapped all over it).
"Damn man!" exclaims Roman at length, "What's taking that cat so long?"
"He'll get here," says Dom confidently, "But first, he said he wanted to show Mia some ancient temple. You know how that guy gets about historical sites."
"Yeah," says Han, hiding a wry grin, "I'll bet he showed her a temple, alright."
"Watch it man!" snaps Dom suddenly, "That's my sister we're talking about here!"
Just then, a cloud of dust appears in the distance. Letty raises her binoculars to her eyes. "That's them! I'd recognize that big beautiful Oldsmobile anywhere."
A moment later, James pulls up beside the team. "Sorry I'm late, everyone," he says, brimming with positive energy, "Boy, you folks sure missed some great sight-seeing. That Wat Arun temple sure was something, wasn't it, Mia?"
"I'll say. . . I never saw a pillar so tall and so thick before. . ."
"And what about the pair of giant brass gongs at its base. . . ?"
"Oh, well. . . It was a huge thrill. . . making them ring. . ."
The two share a private laugh between themselves. Dom eyes them suspiciously, but says nothing. The other team members whistle and make faces behind him. Anyway, once all that is over with, James asks about their next move.
"Well, Tej gave me the 411 on the time-machine gizmo," explains Dom, "Once you hit 100 miles an hour, the device should engage and open up the spacetime hyper-tunnel. Then it's just a simple matter of navigating the interdimensional astral vortex."
"Not too shabby."
"Yeah, and we'll follow you through. According to Tej, if we stay in close formation, all of us should be able to relocate back to Bethlehem 0 AD."
"But watch for void funnels," adds Tej, now hooking up the time-machine into the trunk of the Oldsmobile, "Fall into one of those things and it's like you never existed."
"And are we even sure we're headed to the right time and place?" asks Mia, "I mean, Hillary could've gone back to any point in time."
"I suppose if we're wrong, we could always go back further in time," suggests James, "I mean, so long as we have enough NOS."
"We should have enough for a round trip and a little extra," says Tej, plugging a sophisticated control panel into the Oldsmobile's tape deck. "Now, do you see that, Professor? That's your Year Counter. It'll tell you when in time you are, so make sure you keep an eye on it."
"Got it," answers James, "Alright team, let's do this thing. Time to save Christmas! Mia can ride with me. Dom, you and your team follow behind."
The team runs to their cars and ignites their engines. James pulls smoothly back onto the deserted highway, while the rest of the team follows in echelon. "Hold onto your butts," says James into his walkie-talkie, "We might be in for a bumpy ride."
(NOTE: This is another part with lots of walkie-talkie usage.)
Then the Professor slams the accelerator. With a squeal of rubber, the Cutlass launches forward at blazing speed. Dom and his crew are right behind him. The mangrove forests rush past to either side. All the while, James keeps a steely eye on the speedometer. It ticks up and up. 70mph. . . 80mph. . . 90mph!"
"James, look!" cries Mia, pointing ahead.
Their view begins to warp and distort. It's as if the curtains of time and space are being pulled apart before their very eyes. Beams of light streak out from a vanishing point on the horizon. Zaps of electricity and flashes of light soon join the cacophony. The Cutlass stretches and contracts as cosmic forces slingshot it into the spacetime wormhole. Metallic creaks and groans assault their eardrums. "Stay together, old girl, stay together," James repeats to himself.
They hit 100mph. There follows a blinding flash and then. . . James and Mia look out upon a swirling tunnel of dazzling plasmatic energy. . .
Dear God. . ." mutters James, "It's just like that time one of my students put LSD in my coffee!"
"When was this?" asks Mia, "During the '60's?"
"Yeah. Luckily, I had a friend at the local recruitment office at the time. A tour in 'Nam sure scared him straight!"
"Oh, James!" she gushes, "You are too much!"
As they negotiate a path through the mesmerizing hyper-tunnel, James regularly glances at the rearview mirror to confirm Dom and his team are still behind him. "Stay on my taillights," he reminds them, "Things are bound to get dicey in here. If you make one wrong turn, there's no telling when or where you could end up."
"Copy that," replies Dom, "Any idea where we are?"
James glances at the Year Counter wired onto the dashboard. "Just passing 2019 now. Stay frosty, gang. I have a feeling things are going to accelerate."
James is right (as usual). The Year Counter clicks down faster and faster the further they push on. 2019 becomes 2017. 2017 becomes 2008. 2008 becomes 1997. 1997 becomes 1982. 1982 becomes 1955. And so on, counting down ever more rapidly.
But then. . . The wormhole begins to destabilize! The swirling beams of color waver and then vanishes altogether. Suddenly, the team finds themselves hurtling through a hellscape of snow-covered ruins and smoking craters.
"Tej!" shouts James, highly alarmed, "What the hell is going on with this thing? Christ Almighty, now we're driving through the Battle of Stalingrad! 1941-1942. What some historians claim was the largest battle ever fought."
"I don't know, Professor!" replies Tej, "The time-device is only a prototype! It must be unstable!"
But before anyone can say or think anything else, the wormhole suddenly appears again, sucking James, Dom, and his team back into the hyper-time tunnel.
"Christ on a cracker, that was close!" exclaims James, "Did we lose anybody back there?"
"Yeah! We lost Han!" shouts Dom.
"Damn man!" shouts Roman, "We gotta go back and save him!"
But no sooner does he say this than the wormhole collapses again. This time, the team finds themselves careening through a peach orchard as ranks and ranks soldiers charge from either side.
"Wait! I know that flag!" shouts James, swiveling his head around the chaotic scene, "That's the battle flag of the 81st Pennsylvanian Volunteers! We've gone back to the Second Day of the Battle of Gettysburg! 1863. The turning point of the American Civil War."
"That's great and all," protests Dom, "But this is nuts! What'd we do—?"
Another flash of light. Back in the wormhole.
"Alright, who'd we lose this time?" asks the Professor.
"Roman and Tej!" answers Letty.
"Shit! Come to think of it, they might've had better luck at Stalingrad. . ."
"Jimbo! I think we need to pick up speed!" shouts Dom, "Maybe that's the only way to keep this from happening again!"
"I'm way ahead of you, good buddy!"
James floors the engine. The Oldsmobile surges forward, moving at ever more preposterous incomprehensible speeds. The rift in the spacetime continuum seems to fluctuate less and less. The Years tick down ever faster. But then. . .
Another flash of light! And out of the hyper-time tunnel once more! Now the team is hurtling through a medieval battle in the middle of a vast city.
"Good Golly, Miss Molly!" shouts the Professor, "Now, we're at the Siege of Constantinople! 1453. Look, there's Mehmed the Second! Young sultan of the upstart Ottoman Empire!"
The three remaining vehicles crash through a sea of Ottoman and Byzantine soldiers, before they hit a ramp, fly a hundred feet clear through the air, and land. . . right back into the wormhole. They disappear from the perplexed soldiers with a zap and a flash.
Yet all is not well.
"Letty!!!" howls Dom, beside himself with emotion, "Jimbo, we lost Letty back there! We gotta turn back!"
(NOTE: Letty is Dom's girlfriend, both in the Fast & Furious movies, and in my timeline as well.)
"No Dom, we can't! If we abort now, Christmas will be lost forever," replies James, using perfect (albeit brutal logic), "Believe me, we'll rescue the others on our way back. We should have enough NOS, but for now, we have to keep going!"
"James, look at the counter!" cries Mia suddenly, "We're already at 100 AD! We're almost there!"
"Alright, give me the countdown! We need to stop at exactly 0! Dom, prepare to slam the brakes with everything you've got!"
"Here it comes," says Mia, "We're at 80 AD. . . 50 AD. . . 20. . . 10. . . 5. . .!"
"Execute!"
James and Dom mash the brakes like there's no tomorrow. Once more, the hyper-time tunnel undulates into nothingness. Next a flash of light. Then a spasm of scintillating sparks. And finally the two vehicles escape from the spacetime rift. . .
Chapter Eight
Bethlehem, Judea – December 24th, 0 AD (12:00pm local time)
Shazam! The Chevelle SS and the Oldsmobile Cutlass (both looking worse for wear) emerge out of the wormhole and go plowing through the rustic streets of Bethlehem. Stunned bystanders dive out of the way in droves. Village women close the shutters of their windows in terror. Local shepherds flee as if their lives depended upon it.
(NOTE: Remember, none of these people have ever seen a bicycle before – much less a raging, snarling slab of Detroit-Iron.)
Still dazed from the jaunt through hyper-time, James struggles to make sense of his surroundings at first. He seems scarcely conscious of the hay bales and chicken coops he keeps crashing into. At last, Mia grabs his arm and points ahead through the mud-splattered windshield.
"James! In front of you! Watch out!" she screams.
They're about to crash into the nativity stable! A young man and pregnant young woman look up from their prayers.
"Aw, shit!" yells James, snapping out of it. He hits the brakes.
Meanwhile, the young couple leaps back just as the vehicles skid to a halt in front of them. The bumper of the Oldsmobile comes within inches of knocking over the manger (which is thankfully empty, since it is still the first Christmas Eve).
For a moment, an eerie calm descends upon the scene. James, Mia, and Dom pant for a handful of seconds, each trying to collect themselves. The streets are, by now, deserted. The only sound is the clucking of chickens, the groans of oxen, and the gentle rumble of the Oldsmobile's V-8 idling in park.
"You know," he says, looking over at Mia, "I always felt the '89 Cutlass's were rather. . . timeless."
Mia gives him an amused roll of the eyes, but deep down, she loves it.
Snapping back into motion, James shuts off the ignition and hops out. Dom and Mia do likewise. They move into the stable and glance around for sign of the young couple.
"Hello!" calls James, "Saint Joseph? Blessed Virgin Mary? Are you alright?"
Suddenly, the young man – Saint Joseph – jumps from a corner, brandishing a piece of wood. "Keep away!" he yells at them, "Begone, you spawns of Satan!"
"Whoa, easy there, pal!" says Dom, holding up his arms to indicate they mean no harm, "We've come in peace!"
"That's right," says James, stepping forward, "I guess you could say we're Three Kings from a faraway land. We've come to help you."
"Peace, Joseph," speaks a heavenly voice, and it belongs, of course, to the Blessed Virgin Mary. She puts a gentle hand on her husband's arm. "These must be the three wise men the Archangel Gabriel foretold! The divine protectors, who will keep us from harm."
"Wise men?" says Saint Joseph, still somewhat unconvinced, "But their garments and voices are most strange. And what country is it where a woman might be equal to a man in wisdom?"
"We call it the United States of America," answers Mia proudly.
Mia's confident response suggests a level subtle patriotism about her and makes James' rod begin to swell. . . with pride. James collects and piles on: "Despite what some in the media would have you believe," adds James.
"Zounds! This is most strange tidings indeed!" exclaims Saint Joseph, finally lowering his makeshift weapon, "But if you've come in peace to attend the birth of our Messiah, then you are most welcome."
"Yes," adds the Blessed Virgin Mary, "You are most welcome indeed. Although I sense there's something more to your journey than that. . ."
"I'm afraid so, my Lady," nods James solemnly, "There is, in fact, a very special reason why we've come. How do I put this? A disgraced ex-queen from our land has also come, and we believe she is trying to prevent the birth of the Messiah! You're both in incredible danger!"
"What?" gasps the Blessed Virgin Mary, "But why would she do such a heinous thing?"
"Why indeed. . .?" sounds a raspy voice behind them.
Everybody turns. It's Hillary Clinton! With a gun!
Even worse, she's backed up by a new army of bizarre followers. Dozens upon dozens of assorted hippie weirdo types stand behind her, most of them clad in outlandish crimson robes. They look like the people you meet at those obnoxious Save the Earth rallies all the youngsters go to these days. Matter of fact, Hillary might've just rounded a couple hundred up while they were intoxicated on ecstasy (or other sex drugs) and then sent them back in time.
"Poor, predictable James," taunts Hillary, her flabby scabby face filled with smug satisfaction, "I knew Bill would cave under pressure, and also that he'd reveal the location of the second time machine. Unfortunately for you, I happened to arrive several years earlier. Plenty of time to build up my cult of loyal followers."
She motions to the small army behind her, who chant in some stupidly incomprehensible language: Equity Now, Gender Fluidity, Community Love, etc. . . While all this is going on, James surreptitiously reaches for his ankle holster.
"Don't even think about it!" snarls Hillary, snapping back to attention, "I've come so far, I won't let you stop me now! You have no idea how long I've waited for this moment. And just to show you I'm serious..."
Bang! Hillary shoots Dom right in the chest. The mighty man seizes up in pain, his granite jaw clenches, he stumbles a few steps forward, and then. . . collapses to the ground.
"Dom!" cries Mia, rushing to his side.
"Noooo!" shouts James, who swiftly joins her.
Hillary grins diabolically. Her followers hoot repeatedly. Saint Joseph and the Blessed Virgin Mary cower in fear. Meanwhile, Dom shivers on the ground. He looks from Mia to James and back again.
"J-J-Jimbo. . ." he says, a stream of blood trickling from his mouth, "I-I-I finally remembered what I wanted for Christmas. . ."
"What is it, good buddy? Anything! Just name it!" says James, holding his hand tightly.
Then Dom reaches out for Mia. He takes her hand in his own in his own and pulls it towards James's hand. Now, Dom and Mia are holding hands.
"Take good care of her, old-timer. . ." he whispers, his face clammy and pale, "And if at all possible. . . avenge my death. . ." Then he leans his head back and can speak no more.
A vein begins to throb on James's forehead. He grinds his teeth in rage. "You treacherous pig!" he shouts, rising to his feet, "This isn't over. . ."
"Oh, but it is, my dear Professor," oozes Hillary in reply, "It's over for you. . . It's over for Christmas. . . No more Christianity. No more Judeo-Greco-Roman tradition. Now, the entire edifice of Western Civilization will come crashing down! And in it's place, I will erect a new civilization. A Progressive Civilization."
"You're insane!" shouts Mia, "Everyone knows that mumbo-jumbo will never fly!"
"Oh, but it will," replies Hillary, "Can you just imagine it? A perfect society! Where humorless rule-following bureaucrats plan every aspect of your life for your own good. Where social harmony is ruthlessly enforced by punitive – possibly even vindictive – measures. Where a man can have his tongue cut out – and fed to dogs! – just for saying that Gone with the Wind was an artistic achievement. Where a woman can have her eyes gouged out – and squashed like grapes! – just for thinking that obesity isn't, in fact, beautiful. Where all children are given hormone blockers until they're ready to choose a gender – and any parents who complain are taken away and put into backbreaking penal companies, where they will produce sex toys and diversity pamphlets to be distributed in publicly funded kindergartens. . ."
James quivers in cold fury as Hillary begins to cackle at the thought of her nightmarish society. Then she trains her gun on Saint Joseph and the Blessed Virgin Mary.
"Say goodbye to Christmas forever!" she adds maliciously, "I'm afraid tonight truly will be a silent night."
Bang! Bang! She shoots the Blessed Virgin Mary twice in the stomach.
Bang! Bang! She shoots Saint Joseph twice in the chest.
They both fall to the ground. . .
Chapter Nine
Bethlehem, Judea – December 24th, 0 AD (1:00pm local time)
It appears as if it's all over for our heroes. James and Mia gaze out, utterly horrified. Saint Joseph and the Blessed Virgin Mary lie unconscious on the ground. Hillary smirks in obscene triumph. Her Army of Wokeness foams at their mouths (because they are also cannibals).
"It really is over. . ." stammers James, "We failed. . . Hillary won something. . .she couldn't win the presidency, but she's they've finally done it. . . They cancelled Christmas. . . !"
"James, what do we do?" shrieks Mia.
"I'll tell you what you can do," says Hillary, pointing her gun at her next, "You can die. . . Like the impudent swine you are. . ."
But then. . . the Blessed Virgin Mary opens her eyes and hops athletically to her feet. She's only been playing dead all along!
"Hey Hillary!" shouts the Blessed Virgin, "Aren't you forgetting your present!"
"What?" gasps Hillary, her eyes widening in terror, "How is this possible?"
Then the Blessed Virgin Mary tears open her garment, revealing. . . a bulletproof vest!
James and Mia trade glances. They are every bit as confused as Hillary. Afterwards, Saint Joseph, who is also alive (and also wearing a bulletproof vest), appears out of nowhere, right behind Hillary!
"Time to deck the halls. . ." he says.
He rears back a solid fist. Hillary's sinister eyes widen as, at the last possible moment, she realizes the full magnitude of her gross incompetence and crimes against humanity. Then Saint Joseph clocks her right in her stupid fat face. The gun drops from her hand and she falls to the ground, knocked out cold.
"Hmph," he says, "So much for the War on Christmas!"
In the aftermath, the Army of Wokeness scatters in terror. The Blessed Virgin Mary joins Saint Joseph besides James and Mia, and Dom.
"Are you both alright?" asks the Blessed Virgin.
"Yeah," replies James, somewhat in a state of shock, "But what's going on? How did you both—?"
"Hang on, we'll explain everything in a minute."
Then the Blessed Virgin Mary reaches up to her face. She pinches at the skin around her neck and pulls up. But she isn't really the Blessed Virgin Mary at all. . . It was only a mask! It's a second Mia. . !
James looks from the first Mia to the second Mia and back again. How can this be? Then Joseph reaches up and pulls of his mask. It's a second James!
(NOTE: I know this part is confusing, but it will work better in the movie version. Trust me.)
"Whoa!" shouts the first James (to the second James), "Is that. . . ? How can that. . . ?"
"Yes, James," says the second James (to the first James), "I'm you. But you from the future."
"And I'm you from the future too," says the second Mia (to the first Mia).
"When we got here the first time, we were surprised by Hillary too," explains the second James, "Dom was shot, and Mia and I had to escape using the time machine in the Cutlass."
"Then we went a day back further in time," continues the second Mia, "To yesterday, where we met the real Joseph and Mary and hid them away safely. Then we put on these disguises with the bulletproof vests and waited for you to show up again!"
The first James can only stammer in disbelief. "Then. . . Saint Joseph. . . ? The Blessed Virgin Mary. . . ? They're alright. . . ?"
"Safe and sound!" replies the second James. He turns to look down a certain street and whistles. "It's alright, you guys! You can both come out!"
The first James and Mia turn to witness a second Oldsmobile Cutlass enters the picture. The real Saint Joseph's behind the wheel! The real Blessed Virgin Mary is in the passenger seat, laughing her head off. It looks like the pair of them have been having a blast. They pull up beside the stable and join the two sets of James's and Mia's.
"Zounds!" exclaims Saint Joseph, "What a truly marvelous contraption!"
"It is, dear husband!" says the Blessed Virgin, "It is like a miraculous chariot from on high!"
"You two been having fun?" asks the second James with a wide grin.
"Oh, very much so! Yours must be a happy land indeed, where every man can afford such a wondrous means of transportation!" says Saint Joseph.
"Yes, but – Oh, Joseph! It's coming! The Messiah's coming!" cries the Blessed Virgin Mary, suddenly grasping at her stomach. Saint Joseph moves quickly to her side and leads her into the stable.
Meanwhile, the second James turns to the first James and the first Mia. "Okay, we'll take it from here," he tells them, "You two need to get going. Remember, if you don't go back in time now, then none of this is even possible!"
The first James nods. "You old dog, you!" he says (to himself from the future), "I knew you'd figure a way out of this mess! Alright, Mia, let's do exactly what they did!"
And so (if you've been following along), the first James and the first Mia head off into the first Oldsmobile to go back in time. The fire up the ignition and speed off. Then the second James and the second Mia (and let's just call them regular James and Mia from now on) return to Dom's side. The man's eyes flutter in a delirium. He seems to have not even realized what happened.
"Poor Dom," says Mia, "Is there anything we can do to help him?"
But just at that moment. . . Rays of soft warm light start to appear around the Blessed Virgin Mary. They spread outwards from the stable and soon envelop the entirety of the surroundings. Awash with heavenly light, Dom starts to awake. Amazingly, the bullet wound in his chest melts away – as though it was never really there! The color returns to his face, and he finds he is able to stand under his own power.
"Dom!" cries Mia, overjoyed, "You're back! It's a miracle!"
"Yeah, I guess it is," replies Dom, giving her a hug, "Joy to the world. . ."
Then Dom sees James standing a little ways away. He breaks apart from his sister and approaches him. "James," he says, "You're the craziest, most unpredictable son-of-a-bitch I've ever met. But you're one hell of a goddamn agent. I'd be honored if you would marry my sister."
Dom reaches out and embraces both Mia and James simultaneously. James gives Dom some appreciative taps on his broad back and says "Dom, when we get back home, I owe you a beer."
"Make it two, Jimbo, we're family." utters Dom, as a single tear begins to rolls down his cheek.
Chapter Ten
Bethlehem – December 25th, 0 A.D. (1:00am local time)
Night has fallen. Above the stars twinkle from the sable bed of the desert sky. One star burns brighter than all the others combined. Its heavenly light cascades down upon the town of Bethlehem, right above the tranquil Nativity scene. Saint Joseph and the Blessed Virgin Mary kneel beside the manger where little Baby Jesus lies, wrapped in swaddling clothes. A procession of shepherds come to give homage. Standing some ways away are James, Dom, and Mia – as well as the Oldsmobile Cutlass and Chevelle SS.
(NOTE: Hillary has been tied up, with a sock in her mouth, and is actually inside the trunk of the Chevelle.)
Suddenly. . . a flash of electric blue light overwhelms their surroundings. Everyone cranes their necks in search of the source. Then they see it. The Presidential Limousine (also rigged for time-travel) appears hurtling down the dirt road. It swerves and skids to a halt just a few feet from the stable.
James, Dom, and Mia exchange glances of confusion. Then the driver's side door opens and President Trump emerges (wearing super-cool sunglasses).
"Professor, Dominic, Mia," he says, greeting them, "Really great work saving Christmas. Should've known it was Hillary all along. Nasty woman. . ."
"Thank you, sir," says James, saluting the commander-in-chief, "But what're you doing here?"
"Long story," replies President Trump, "The Democrats are trying to steal the election by time-travelling to Ancient Athens and preventing democracy from ever being invented. . . Luckily, the Dept. of Defense lent me this spare time machine. But I need your help. We gotta get your team back together!"
"Ancient Athens, eh?" says James, "What a coincidence. That's one of my favorite periods in history!"
"Great. Tremendous. Knew I could count on you."
"Oh, but wait!" says the Blessed Virgin Mary, tenderly picking up Baby Jesus, "You're leaving so soon?"
She and Saint Joseph walk over to where President Trump, James, Dom, and Mia are standing.
"Duty calls, I'm afraid," says James.
"Yes, but we'll never forget you," says Mia.
"And we'll never forget the style and comfort of your amazing mechanical chariots!" exclaims Saint Joseph, now admiring the presidential limousine.
Everybody has a good chuckle at this.
"Well, sorry to drop in and out so soon," says President Trump, "But now we've got to save democracy before the Libs destroy that too. Goodbye, Saint Mary, Saint Joseph, Little Baby Jesus."
"Farewell!" they all reply.
"Before I go, I must hold that Beautiful Baby Jesus. Jesus loves me. Babies Love me." exclaims President Trump as Saint Mary hands him the infant.
President Trump inspects the infant, perhaps a little awkwardly, but with good intentions and begins to coo and make baby noises when. . . Little Baby Jesus opens his eyes and looks straight at the president.
"Trump!" he exclaims in his adorable baby voice.
Everybody laughs hysterically and then collectively says "awwwwww".
Epilogue
Stalingrad – December 30th, 1941 (2:00pm local time)
The cold harsh landscape of the hellish battlefield smolders with bombs and shell fire. Men crawl on their bellies from house to house. Machine gun fire ripples in the distance. Suddenly, a bright orange Mazda RX-7 streaks through no-man's land. It's Han! He skillfully dodges around shell holes and drifts between charging tanks and self-propelled artillery.
"Man, what a day," he sighs to himself, shifting up in gear.
Just then. . . the walkie-talkie in the passenger seat begins to squelch with a signal. "Han. . . Are you there. . . ? Come in, Han. . ."
Han shakes his head and smiles to himself. "Here we go again!" he exclaims.
