Marty Beckett dangled Baby Hitler over the bathtub by his pudgy anti-Semitic calves while Edgar rifled through the medicine cabinet. The calves of infants aren’t anti-Semitic in and of themselves, but after Edgar scribbled Magic Marker swastikas all over these, they weren’t the sort of baby calves you bring home to Ima and Aba. Baby Hitler looked up at Marty with a Blue-Steel pose and giggled his first giggle. It was (somehow) an adorable and racist giggle.

“Don’t look at him!” Edgar said. He found the bottle of unregulated 1889 morphine and stuffed it into his overflowing gym bag. It was the fortieth bottle of Mr. and Mrs. Hitler’s morphine he scored today. Mr. and Mrs. Hitler lay silent in the living room, twin smoking holes in their foreheads. They weren’t bad people; just huge litterbugs. After shooting forty pairs of Mr. and Mrs. Hitlers, Edgar had become a crack shot.

Marty lowered Baby Hitler head first into the bathtub. “I peeked. Shit, it’s looking right at me.”

“Here,” said Edgar, handing Marty the Magic Marker. “Do the thing.”

Marty tried to do the thing, but the Marker was dry. “It’s dry. It’s fuckin’ dry! I told you not to go bonkers with the swastikas. Every Universe we’ve been to today, I swear.”

Edgar tossed Mrs. Hitler’s makeup box on the wood floor. The Digitech stopwatch around Edgar’s neck ticked past fifty-nine minutes. Tequila Kaboom’s semi-infinite “Giving Back To The Multiverse” Charity Murder Contest and Social Mixer was going to come down to the wire. Edgar’s fingers found a waxy black pencil. “Eyeliner! Go go go go…” Edgar flipped the pencil to Marty, shouldered his gym bag, and dashed out the front door where the Time Machine steamed up the Hitlers’s flower bed.

Marty tried not to make eye contact as he penciled a 1” wide moustache on Baby Hitler’s upper lip. It ate precious time, but it made things easier. Marty held Baby Hitler underwater as the stopwatch ticked away the last thirty seconds of the contest. Like the thirty-nine others in the last hour, this Baby Hitler was unaware of concepts like thrashing or breath-holding. He calmly inhaled 5ccs of warm water, instinctively coughed it out, inhaled two deep lung-fulls, and fell asleep in ten seconds. In his last moments, he blamed the Jews.

Marty squeezed into the Time Machine and pulled the pin on a BioCleanse grenade. Edgar punched a big red button and scorched a sphere in space. A Universe away, a fraction of a Planck away, on a landing pad in the grand ballroom of Tequila Kaboom, a sphere of substance was pinched out of existence and dumped on L253X, the Landfill Universe. The vacuum was absolutely pure the instant Marty and Edgar’s Time Machine landed on the Winner’s Podium in Third Place. Thousands of formally-dressed science-types cheered for philanthropy. Philanthropy Mixers alleviated the tremendous guilt each and every time traveler endured for leaving their Universe and their families behind.

Marty and Edgar stepped out of the BioCleanse mist and jabbed themselves in the bellies with AmnioPhage syringes to replace intestinal bacteria lost in decontamination. Prince began performing “When Doves Cry” on the main stage. He was ripped in from another dimension and would be paid and sent back after the show. The experience wouldn’t even be the oddest thing that happened to Prince that day. Time Machines popped into existence onto perimeter landing pads and disappointed astrophysicists stepped out. It was all for charity, but the social cachet of winning Tequila Kaboom’s semi-infinite “Giving Back to the Multiverse” Charity Murder Contest was priceless. Money was irrelevant here in the premier time traveler bar, Tequila Kaboom. The only currencies in this world were a high weirdness threshold and possessing impossible artifacts from other Universes. Plus, Tequila Kaboom’s proprietor, Gary Oldman, organized sweet prizes.

Marty and Edgar stood on the podium next to the second place winners. “Who did you draw? How many did you get?” Marty asked the second-prize duo.

They were atom-smashers, physicists of the very small. They looked incredibly unpleasant and terribly serious. “Eighty-four Titanic Captains pushed overboard thirty minutes before the ice berg was supposed to hit.”

Edgar was peeved at the judging algorithm. “Geez, man. How much will that help eighty-four worlds, really?

“That’s what we drew, OK? Why? Who did you draw?”

Marty and Edgar looked at their feet, ashamed. They simultaneously mumbled, “Hitler.”

The atom-smashers busted out laughing. “Bahahaha! Typical uncreativity from noobs!”

“We didn’t pick the fucker!” Edgar shouted. “We improved an incalculable number of lives today.”

“Whatever,” said atom-smasher number two. “Everybody’s done it. That troll has been wasted so many times, it’s almost like playing horseshoes.”

A smiling astrophysicist/ waitress passed by with a tray. “Punch? Space-heroin? Panda?”

Edgar grumbled, took a Solo Red Cup of punch, and bit an 1889 morphine pill in half. Marty returned the waitress’ smile and selected a thimble of space-heroin. He swallowed it, felt unearned love for himself for ten seconds, then decided to turn off the high. His heart wasn’t in it.

Top prize was three sedated 1991 Alec Baldwins (abducted from three B Universes) OR a giftwrapped Tina Fey and Mindy Kaling set (also a Time Traveler duo from Universe A1 and currently Charity-Murdering teenage Pontius Pilates in overtime). Tina and Mindy popped into existence on the Winner’s Podium as they always did. They offered themselves up for top prize because they knew nobody would collect.

Tina grabbed two Alec Baldwins by the hands and Mindy licked Alec Baldwin #3’s face. None of the 1991 Alec Baldwins seemed to mind. Tina and Mindy said something brilliant, hilarious, original, and confident to the crowd before leading their prizes to Tequila Kaboom’s Orgasm-Loop Room.

Gary handed the Second Place Atom-Smashers a rare prize: coordinates and every single ticket to the Universe and venue where Michael Jackson first performed the Moonwalk during “Billie Jean” March 25, 1983.

Gary handed Marty Third Prize. “You’ll dig this. It’s not great, but it was so hard to find a Universe with something this weird. There’s only one copy.”

Marty and Edgar watched their prize later that night in their apartment. It’s a Wonderful Life starring Samuel L. Jackson did not disappoint. They laughed all night and couldn’t wait for Tequila Kaboom’s next contest: “Abduct ten Mozarts and a Dre and Make a New Dynamite Hit.”

“Turn up the volume,” smiled Marty.

Black and white Samuel L. Jackson romanced his crush on the wide-screen: “You want the motherfuckin’ Moon, Mary? Just say the word and I’ll throw a motherfuckin’ lasso around it.”

 

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