The Interdimensional Subwoofer: A dimension hopping, time traveling, science fiction novel: The Corpse

By Richard B Knight

What would the world be like if it was run by women?

College student, Ernie Gutierrez, wants nothing more than to open a commercial Filipino restaurant in memory of his late aunt. His brother, Carlos, wants nothing more that to get drunk and rack of the tally of girls he's slept with. But when a mysterious stranger comes along and offers to install a subwoofer in Ernie's hatchback, things take a turn for the weird. Because this isn't just any subwoofer. No, no. This is an INTERDIMENSIONAL SUBWOOFER. And it takes the brothers to a world very different from our own--This is a world run entirely by women.

Now on the other side, Ernie and Carlos must find a way to fit in to this alternate dimension or risk subjugation for being the aliens they truly are. Will Ernie and Carlos ever get back home to see their dreams come true, or will they be trapped forever in a world where the roles of gender inequality are reversed, and women are in control?

Find out in this time traveling, dimension hopping, science fiction novel!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Richard B Knight
• Release date: Sep 2, 2015
• ISBN: 9781516384082

Book preview

The Interdimensional Subwoofer

Part I

In Which Two Sets of Brothers From Totally Different Dimensions Find Their Way To The Other Side And Struggle To Get Ahead

1.

Imagine a world where there is no war. No rolling tanks, no airstrikes, and no boots on the ground, just peace, man. Peace.

Doesn’t that sound nice?

In this world, politicians and leaders are held accountable for their sins and can be removed from office at any time if the public demand is vocal enough. Here, the voting process is more vital. More respected. Voter turn-out is at a staggering 95%, and both the old and the young line up at the polls. They enthusiastically slap on their I Voted! stickers as soon as they walk out of the booth, proud and accountable as they should be. This is democracy at work, people. This is how things should get done.

Imagine a world where the burning of fossil fuels is forbidden and unnecessary. The words global warming and global cooling are spoken only by scientists during their lunch breaks, and only then if the show they watched last night wasn’t compelling or worth discussing. Ice caps aren’t melting to slush and crashing into the ocean. Violent storms aren’t wreaking havoc on villages, and do you smell that? Ooh, mama! Even the air smells different here. You can even see the stars no matter where you live. Like, look! There’s Orion’s belt! Bet you’ve never seen it that clearly before.

All this is made possible because in this world, everything runs on clean energy, baby. All of the cars are electric and all of the houses have solar panels. There are no waste pumping, cooling towers in this world. Not a chance, sister, and you can take that to the bank!

Imagine a world where the annual global crime rate is equivalent to just one week on the streets of Chicago, and the worst crimes involve little more than groping, or the occasional Peeping Tom. Murder is practically non-existent.

It couldn’t be more different from our world, right?

Well, I want you to keep that world in mind, since Dr. Edward Navarro and his partner, Wilheim Bosley, want to take that world and change it into something terrible—They want to change it into OUR world. In fact, Dr. Navarro is talking to Wilheim right now on the phone in his small, Clifton, New Jersey home. 

Let's listen:

***

Dr. Edward Navarro paces the length of his living room. A band around his wrist projects the image of his partner, Wilheim, onto his palm. Okay, so just make sure you reach 85 miles per hour when the song hits the 2:55 mark. No faster, no slower.

With quick, deliberate steps, Navarro moves from one end of the room to the other wearing nothing but a white t-shirt and purple briefs. His legs are barren of hair, just like the rest of his body, save for his head, which is coifed into a rolling, black wave of Elvis-inspired perfection.

He stops and stands in the kitchen archway. His svelte frame leans forward as if he’s peeking into the abyss. He inspects the room for centipedes. Once clear, he steps inside.

And what if I were to go just a tiny bit faster? the black partner asks on Navarro’s palm. Will I explode or hit some kind of invisible wall?

"No, no, no. If you go any faster, the collider will short circuit and that’s it. I keep telling you that, Wilheim. You’ll be fine. It will wear out the collider, though. He pads across the tiled kitchen floor, returning to the living room moments later with a blueberry Danish. And remember. If you run into any trouble, make sure you only use the crystal in a private place." He takes a bite out of his Danish and makes a face.

Approach Stewart first, correct? Wilheim asks. In the image on Navarro’s palm, the bearded man shaves his legs on the toilet.

"Talk to the one who looks like Stewart first, correct, but make sure both brothers come over here. It’s essential. They live in what’s called a ‘fraternity house.’ I’ll be sending my boys over at 1200 hours on Friday. So make sure their doppelgangers are on their way at the exact same time...Okay, I’m counting on you, Wilheim. Be here at 1900 hours. Mom’s speed."

Navarro clicks a button on the wristband and the signal cuts off on his palm. He stands with his hands on his hips, taking stock of his dismal living quarters. His eldest son, Stew, has been watching him pace the room. His other son, Darryl, plays a video game on his phone. They’re both sitting on the single couch, shoulder to shoulder, knee to knee, wearing identical outfits—black pants, white t-shirts, and bracelets that identify to whom they belong: Dr. Edward Navarro, Gynecologist. Clifton, NJ.

All but a slim 20% of the world’s population is produced outside of a lab. Both of Navarro’s sons, rejected by their mother for their lack of femaleness, were created in test tubes. Her poor opinion of the male sex had prevented her from loving them. But rather than placing them in a home for the unwanted, she had been kind enough to give Navarro the option to raise them. Though he never met her in person, he imagined his boys must look like her, since neither favored him in any way.

His home is far from the typical domicile, but then that’s to be expected as the only man to own one on this side of town. His garage only houses one electric car instead of two. And unlike his female neighbors who are constantly replacing and rearranging their many rooms of furniture, Navarro has but a single sofa. It sports a set of mismatched floral throw pillows, but has none of the built-in sex toys that are the norm. His bedroom offers only a mattress on the floor, which he keeps just outside the standard oversized shoe closet. Navarro’s three pairs of shoes sit on the top shelf closest to the door. A pair of sneakers and two pairs of dress shoes are all he has—one brown and the other pink.

Along with his two sons, Navarro lives a man apart. Save a handful of rare exceptions, the rest of the city’s men reside in the Botany Village apartment complex. Row after row of non-descript buildings, each nine-stories high, spread out across fenced-in confines of the complex. Every building and every floor is exactly the same. Rooms are barely ten feet in length with one communal bathroom per flight. The stink of body odor, unwashed butts, and urine is pervasive despite the relative cleanliness of the complexes themselves.

Only those men blessed with acrobatic tongues manage to escape the monotony of life in the Village. Them and those magnificently endowed with a big penis. A big penis goes a long way here. Navarro would know.

But the rarest male specimens, considered extremely lucky amongst their peers are those selected to take care of children that they helped produce with a female partner. Navarro is different in this way as well, and has never met another man allowed to raise his own children.

He polishes off the Danish and stifles a yawn.

I’m going to take a nap, he says to Stew. If the alarm doesn’t wake me, get me up in an hour.

He retires to his room and closes the door behind him.

With their father gone, Darryl pauses his game. Is it just me, or does he sound super worried?

It’s just you. Father never worries, Stew says.

The two siblings not only look nothing like their father, they also look nothing like each other. At 6’4’’, eighteen-year old Darryl towers over five and a half foot tall, Stewart. And while both are obviously of Filipino heritage, Stew is several shades darker and two years older than his brother.

Can you even imagine a world where men make the rules? Darryl shakes his head, unable to imagine what that kind of world would look like.

Alright. What’s the matter? Stew asks him. You’re acting funny.

Darryl glances at their father’s door, then turns back to his brother and lowers his voice. It’s just crazy to think that this day’s finally here.

What’s so crazy about it? It was bound to come eventually.

Yeah, I suppose.

What do you mean, you ‘suppose’? Father’s been talking about this day our entire lives.

Darryl looks to the door again. You know how I feel about this.

There’s nothing to worry about. Father has everything under control.

"But how do we know that?" Darryl asks louder than he means to. He shrinks down when he hears a loud snore in the other room. It’s followed by the squeal of springs as their Dad turns over in bed.

"How do we know what, Darryl?" Stew asks.

Darryl tucks his chin to his chest and whispers. About men being in charge over there.

Oh, that, Stew swipes the air. "There’s no need to worry about that. That’s why Wilheim’s going over there first. To investigate."

"No, Wilheim’s going over there to set everything up for us. Even I know that, and Dad doesn’t tell me squat."

Stew crosses his arms. What? So now you don’t trust Father’s math? Is that it?

Darryl opens his mouth, but stops himself. It’s no use. Stew has been drinking their father’s Kool-Aid ever since he could walk. He’s never once questioned his judgment. But Darryl has, and frequently. A dimension where men are in charge? It doesn’t seem possible.

Stew prods his brother. You don’t think we’ll be able to make the jump? Is that it?

No, no, it’s not that. Dad’s math is probably right.

Then what’s the problem?

It’s hard to explain.

Stew wraps his arm around his brother. Perhaps he just needs to loosen up. Then don’t try to explain it. Father’s much smarter than us. Where we just see numbers and symbols, he sees limitless possibilities. He knows what he’s doing.

I guess, Darryl shrugs.

You worry too much. If anything, this is going to be an adventure, and haven’t we always wanted to go on an adventure together?

Darryl shrugs again. Stew tightens his squeeze.

Come on, brother. Lighten up. Do you remember that time you scaled down the side of the house to look inside Father’s office?

How could I forget? You almost dropped me right on my head. Everything was covered up in sheets. It looked like a room full of ghosts.

Yeah. But you remember it, right?

Of course. Even back then, Dad kept me in the dark. But we’re adults now, Stew, and he still doesn’t tell me anything. He pauses. Well, besides that stupid code.

Stew unfurls his arm. It’s not stupid.

It doesn’t even make any sense. Up, up, down, down, left, right, left, right, B, A, start? What does that even mean?

Now Stew is the one to shrug. Father says you’ll know when the time is right.

"I just don’t understand why everything has to be so cryptic?"

Stew softens. Father doesn’t tell me nearly as much as you think he does.

Right, but don’t you think that’s strange, Stew? Here it is, we’re supposed to be hopping into another dimension in a couple of days, and we still don’t know exactly what for.

Yes, we do. Reconnaissance.

Yeah, well, I don’t quite believe that. Wilheim could do reconnaissance if that’s all Dad wanted. If you ask me, I think he has other plans for us.

Like what?

I don’t know, Darryl says, furrowing his brow. And that’s what bothers me.

Stew relents and opens up a little. Honestly, and just keep this between us. I don’t think Father trusts Wilheim. Not like he used to.

What are you talking about? They’re closer now than ever before.

Not true. Ever since his fallout with... His lips become a line.

Go on, say it.

With she-who-shall-not-be named. 

Darryl rolls his eyes. Will you stop it already? You mean Senator Ri—

Stew covers his ears. Don’t say it, Darryl. Even after all these months, he still thinks that even saying her name will bring calamity to their family and jeopardize this mission.

Darryl sighs. Okay. Whatever. What about her?

Ever since the fallout, I don’t think Father can depend on Wilheim anymore. Not like he used to. I think Father blames him for it.

Darryl considers this but then shakes his head. Dad wouldn’t let Wilheim make the first jump if he didn’t trust him.

This is true, Stew says, contemplating this little wrinkle in his theory.

"But what really bothers me is that Dad’s not telling us just why he wants our doppelgangers, Darryl says. What if he wants to replace us and that’s why he’s not telling us?"

Stew’s face burns. Alright, now that’s enough, Darryl. Father would never replace us. He points to the bracelet on his wrist as if that means anything. See? We’re his.

I really don’t know what Dad would do to us, Darryl says.

Well, I can tell you that he would never do anything to hurt us, that’s for sure.

You mean besides this? Darryl says, lowering his collar to reveal a purple bruise on his clavicle.

That’s different and you know it. Father’s training has only made us stronger. We have no idea what dangers we might face on the other side. He just wanted to make sure we’re prepared.

Yeah, well, whatever, Darryl says. He unpauses his game and stares silently at the screen.

C’mon, don’t be like that. It’s a fact, Darryl. We’re only going to the other side to observe and report. I’m sure Father will use the data to write up another paper, he points over his head at the framed article on the wall. There’s no need to worry. Trust Father.

Honestly, Stew, the only person I trust is you.

Stew doesn’t know what to say to this, so he says nothing.

2.

Jesus, Ernie, where the hell are the pledges? Jorge asks me. Your brother’s supposed to be on top of this. Jorge is a short—shorter than me, even—Peruvian man with sharp eyebrows and an even sharper temper. His dark skin rivals mine in complexion, and even his eyes are a little chinky. If he wanted to, he could pass for Filipino. But I doubt he would want to. Peruvians are too proud to be anything but Peruvian.

I’ll talk to him, I tell him, annoyed. You just worry about the noise level here tonight.

My brother is the Pledge Leader this semester, which means he’s in charge of mentoring the pledges and making sure they’re here when we need them. But he’s done a lousy job so far, and I have to pick up the slack for him, just like with everything else. As the Vice-President of the Chi Nu Phi fraternity, he’s making my ass look bad.

There’s a harsh scraping sound coming from the next room over and Jorge does a 180. It’s one of our fall pledges. He’s dragging a keg into the room when he should be carrying it, but it’s a two man operation. As it stands, he’s chipping away at the already crumbling black dance floor. Not that it could get any worse.

Hey, hey, hey, Jorge shouts. What the hell do you think you’re doing?

The pledge stands there dumbfounded.  I was, uh, just bringing up this keg like Frater Richard told—

"I know what you think you were doing, but you’re doing it all wrong. Now, hit the deck, maggot!"

The pledge lets go of the keg and leaps to the floor in push-up position.

Twenty, sir? the pledge asks. His long, black hair falls in his face as he stares at the scuffed up, tiled floor that reeks of beer and puke.

Why aren’t your pledge brothers here, maggot?

Sir, I don’t know, sir! the pledge shouts.

Then give me 40!

Sir, yes, sir!

Jorge hates everybody, but he especially hates pledges, who he finds to be worthless pieces of meat. This is besides the fact that he was probably the most worthless, good for nothing pledge who ever stepped foot inside the Theta Rho chapter of Chi Nu Phi. And I should know, since I was his pledge brother. How he got to be President of this house, I’ll never know.

One! the pledge shouts as he goes down. Two!

I can’t heeeear yoooou!

Three! he screams, his pale forehead turning beat red.

I don’t have time for this. I have to deal with my brother.

Ever since Tita Zelda died a couple years back, Carlos hasn’t been the same. He used to cook all the time and was even gung-ho about starting a Filipino restaurant with me. But lately, Tita Zelda’s Filipino Cuisine seems like it’s only my dream. It’s the booze. He’s been drinking a lot, and getting into fights over dumb shit. Mostly girls, but sometimes pride. A drunk Carlos is an angry Carlos. Carlos drink, Carlos smash! And it’s the last thing we need tonight.

Travel the World Night is our biggest event of the year. We use it to entice students to become pledges. In other words, we serve up copious amounts of alcohol and pack the place with some of the hottest girls on campus as proof that our fraternity is the place to be.

As I leave the room and rush up the stairs, I pass by a variety of paddles. All of them have the names of brothers who once served this house. There are even more paddles in the basement, with some of them dating as far back as 1910. I shit you not.

The rest of this structure is what you might expect of a frat house. More alcohol and blood has been spilt on these floors than the rowdiest of bars, and if you’re not hearing eardrum splitting music, then you’re hearing some sorority sister faking an orgasm in one of the brother’s rooms. I’ve seen more walks of shame out of this house than I’d care to mention, and I wish I didn’t have to see it at all. If not for the brotherhood, I probably wouldn’t even be in a frat. Beer does terrible things to people. That’s why I never touch the stuff.

I turn at the top of the stairs and head toward the red door at the end of the corridor. This is where I live with my brother. Sharing a room with Carlos lets me be closer to him, which also helps me keep him away from liquor. The whole house wins.

One of my frat brothers, Uche Anamdi, sits on the torn green carpet in front of the TV playing video games. He sits to the left of the bar. Uche is a rail thin African who hails all the way from Tanzania. He’s tight with my brother, but I find him a little weird.

Sometimes, he talks about how he believes in parallel dimensions right here on Earth. He’ll say stuff like, There are other worlds right next door. All you have to do is listen. He’ll cup his ear as if he can hear Rigel 7 in the next room over. Again, he’s a strange dude, but I like him. He crossed last semester with my brother, so they’re close.

Hey, Uche, I say. You see Carlos?

"What do