Interdimensional Travel While Impaired

By Kenneth Roland

Every major decision creates a new world for every possible outcome. Sarah, a comic shop employee, discovers that she has never made a decision major enough to create a world of its own. With her best friend, an interdimensional traveler, and a strange government agent, Sarah sets out to change the world she lives in.

After dis

• Language: English
• Publisher: Rebaken Enterprises
• Release date: Sep 16, 2022
• ISBN: 9781738711130

Book preview

Interdimensional

Travel while

impaired

KENNETH ROLAND

Version: 1.0.0

Copyright © 2022 Kenneth Roland

All rights reserved.

Layout design © 2022 Rebaken Enterprises

Published 2022 by Rebaken Enterprises

ISBN: 978-1-7387111-3-0

Cover art and design by Blake Stevenson

Though some of the places and buildings mentioned in Interdimensional Travel While Impaired are real, all events and characters are the products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to real persons, alive or dead, is entirely coincidental. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the author’s permission.

Other Books by

Kenneth Roland

The Psi.P.O. - 2021

Malcolm always wanted to be the founder of a tech company. When his team creates something beyond his imagination, he struggles to deal with the implications.

An often hilarious view into the world of tech start up companies and the software industry.

Reviews

Taking a look inside the workings of a start up tech company, you also get to look into the minds and souls of the characters within, all the while having a look within yourself. A smart, thoughtful, magical and often hilarious read!

Ken creates an easily relatable picture of office life with a roster of interesting characters and situations. I’m not much for reading novels (or writing reviews); however his story and quality of writing kept me engaged just long enough to turn the last page which I deem a monumental achievement.

Kenneth crafts an easy-to-read tale that hinges on that most critical of lessons, To thine own self be true! Highly recommend!

To Evelyn-Harvey Dickinson, who always believed I could do it,

and that I had the best hugs.

To Jamie and Tara Harmon, for being such good friends through thick and thin, weddings to funerals.

To my beautiful wife, Rebecca Roland, for being the rock of the family, and a pillar to everyone that knows her.

To everyone that left a review online for my last book.

Thank you so much for your support.

To Harry Scanlan and Blake Stevenson for pushing me,

when I didn’t need to be pushed ...

To my Grandma Roland, who always Marched us off to bed.

To my parental units, for their amazing ability to keep it together as the world changed around them.

To my brother, for dealing with his own demons,

and learning to be to the man he deserves to be.

To my four girls, who give me joy, grief, love and frustration.

My raison d’être

To my Aunt Donna for being an eternal light

in everyone’s lives

To my Uncle Jack for being an example of strength

And to Matt Thurston, thank-you for being a friend

Finally to Rebaken Enterprises, as always, for allowing me

to dedicate this book to as many people as I want.

Acknowledgements

The author would like to acknowledge the following persons and groups for their help with this story. Thanks to my proof readers: Rebecca Roland, Chris Stavropoulos, Andy Heller, Alex Roland, Bill Roland.

Thanks to Mary Beard for writing SPQR: A History of Ancient Rome, and creating a fascination with an empire that may be lost in our time.

The lyrics to Burn it to the Ground by Nickelback are purposely incorrect since I couldn’t be bothered to get permission to use the real ones.

Comic book shops are the last bastion of creativity. Find your local shop and check out some of the different and interesting titles. And if you are ever in Cambridge, Ontario, stop at my local shop Retro Rocket Comics & Toys www.retrorocketcomics.com

Blake Stevenson is an amazing artist, and you can view more of his works here: http://jetpacksandrollerskates.com/

The story you are about to read is fiction. Any resemblence to a real story is strictly coincidental. The story, all names, characters, and incidents portrayed are completely fictitious. The names of all characters have been changed even though they were just made up to begin with, and then changed again just to be safe.

Chapter i

Albert had never tasted motor oil before. A small part of his brain began to wonder what other things he had never tasted; chicken feathers, Doritos with mayonnaise, and freedom came to mind. Another part of his brain felt that style of thinking was a waste of time and the thinking power would be better spent closing their mouth and removing their head from under the car. Albert’s body didn’t wait for the brain to make that decision and began extracting itself with wriggles and shuffles directly out onto the shoulder of the road.

Albert’s car had been driving since Virginia, mostly under Albert’s direct control, but sometimes as he dozed off, it experienced the freedom of gliding along uninhibited by human intervention. It was usually with a jerk and correction that the car was wrenched back into human control as Albert startled awake again, slapping himself heavily to focus his attention back on Highway 400 and stop dreaming about earlier in the day when he was home, shooting virtual terrorists and discussing the problems of parental lineage with 12 year-olds online.

The car had started to act up, shaking and making a knocking noise that Albert could only describe as ‘not good’ as he passed Parry Sound around 2:00 in the morning. Shortly afterward he had been forced to rumble across the road edge and onto the shoulder. His headlights exposed Canadian Shield beside him where it poked through the earth. It’s rocks striped with a dark gray and rust coloured red. Although he knew nothing about the internal combustion engine he had decided that he had better look. He crawled under the car using his cell phone flashlight to illuminate the undercarriage. It was at this point that Albert had first tasted motor oil.

Albert’s body wriggled out from under the car and erected itself into a standing man. It was stuffing the illuminated phone into the front pocket of its casual pants. Pockets were something a body could really appreciate. Albert’s brain was chastising the thinking part that was still pondering things they’d never tasted with wasting valuable time. It instructed the fingers to clean out the warm fluid from the eyes and informed the mouth that it should spit out the lingering oil. Albert’s brain was pretty good at multitasking this way. Using the fingers as fleshy squeegees it mopped the oil from the eyelids onto the cheeks as the body, unaware of its location, stumbled out onto the highway.

Luckily for Albert, Greyhound had recently suspended all bus activity in Canada or he would have been flattened by the red eye traveling from Toronto to Sudbury. Instead he was crushed by the Ontario Northland bus running that same route. Albert’s shoes stayed exactly where they were, but the rest of his body floated over his car and would have hit the soft ground had it not been shielded by the highly metamorphosed granite. A small device flew out of Albert’s coat pocket as he traveled by air. Its destination, decided strictly through physics, was a small clump of grass about 5 meters further off the shoulder and up an embankment from where Albert’s jumbled body landed. The device, a small box of black metal and exposed steel, sunk snuggly into the grass and rested there for many days.

Dean Lawrence stood across the street from Thrust Visuals, a comic book shop in Parry Sound. He noted the gaudy sign with its bright colours and medieval visuals. The logo was surrounded by superheroes from days gone by as well as the modern age. Everywhere he’d been, there were superheroes. It seemed odd that every stream had someone in it that believed drawings of supreme beings was a worthwhile exercise, somehow attracting mobs of others who purchased these drawings to escape their real lives. The part he found odd, was that only once a society was doing well, did they attempt to use this escape. They had more time to enjoy things and relax and that’s when these art books gained recognition. To Dean it was like sitting under a tree by a brook suddenly wasn’t good enough anymore, people wanted excitement in their down time. They all just needed to work more and play less.

His own plain black clothing contrasted the shop dramatically, although he wore purple socks between his shiny black loafers and charcoal colored pants. A large overcoat hung to mid-calf and his black fedora sat squarely on his head. Even his slicked back hair was black, but his face was pasty white and sunken to the point he appeared to be a well-dressed skeleton out on the town. His nose had been broken multiple times and reminded everyone who saw him of an eagle, his marble sized eyes staring down his beak at them.

Dean glanced up and down James St. He felt like an outsider in this small town and knew he stuck out like he was a Lamborghini at a farm show. He strolled across the street. There was hardly any traffic and only a few shoppers moving from quaint stores to retro theaters, trying to fill out their mundane lives. He shoved his hands in his pockets as he crossed and never took his eyes off the comic book store. He would get what he needed and get out of here. Canada was like the sickly sweet icing on top of America’s cake and he was feeling nauseous.

Sarah watched the single customer of Thrust Visuals flip through a box of back issues. He came in once a month and only bought Spider-man. He was squatting in front of a box on the floor attempting to see under the table to the comics at the back. The thwip, thwip of the comics being flipped made Sarah think of Spider-man shooting his webs in a rapid pulse against some half-man, half-something invader. She began wondering if a mermaid mated with a centaur would the result still be half-man? She gazed out between the posters at a man crossing the street. He looked like he might be half-man, half-vulture, which was a Spider-man villain. If a mermaid mated with Vulture from Spider-man, it’d be like a half-man, half-flying fish … that’d be a cool villain. They could fight against Aquaman and Hawkman in a sweet cross-over.

The vulture was now at the shop door and Sarah watched as he opened the door and quickly stepped inside. She leaned back against the rack of extra special comics behind the counter and crossed her arms in front of her, this was obviously something to do with business. There were two types of customers at Thrust Visuals; one kind came in every month like Jason still squatting and flipping, and the other came in every week and stayed too long, lingering about discussing ultimate match-ups, best artists, worst stories ... and things like what would happen if a mermaid had a baby with a centaur, Sarah sighed.

The man looked around the store before marching directly to the counter. Sarah was pretty sure he wouldn’t have seen Jason, but probably could hear the thwip, thwip, thwip of comics being passed over.

Are you Sarah? The vulture asked, and Sarah was taken aback. She pushed off the rack and moved to the counter.

Yeah, how can I help you?

I’m looking for something and I believe you might have it. Sarah decided he must’ve got her name from someone in the comic scene. She’d been working at Thrust now for 5 years, originally as a means to earn some cash during high school, but then somehow it became her life.

For sure. We have a lot of rare stuff, what are you looking for?

It’s a little metal box, about twice the size of a business card and an inch thick.

Sarah looked at him for a moment as thoughts ran through her head trying to place things in the shop into the hole now created in her mind. Comic books? Definitely don’t fit. Action figures? No. Funko Pops? No. She ran quickly through the entire inventory of the shop. Like a lunch box? She asked as her mind pulled up the closest match.

No, more like an old cigarette case. Perhaps you found it somewhere? the man asked.

Oh, I don’t smoke anymore. Sarah replied, And we don’t sell smokes here. You could check Sara’s on Seguin St., it’s just around the corner … Ohhhh, did you think I was Sara? I’m an H Sarah. That Sara has no H.

No, it’s not a cigarette case. The man seemed agitated. It’s just the size of one. It has a touch pad on the front, like an electronic device. It lights up if you push it.

Sarah stared at him blankly. We don’t have anything like that here. What’s it used for?

Doesn’t matter what it’s used for, he quickly replied. I just thought perhaps you found it? On the side of the road maybe? He attempted to smile and Sarah thought he looked just like those Guy Fawkes masks except without the mustache.

No, I haven’t found anything. What made you think I would’ve found it?

Oh, he hesitated a moment, I thought I heard you mention it at Joe Richardson’s party … He raised his eyebrows expectantly and Sarah watched his face meld into the Joker.

I didn’t go to Joe’s party. Is that where you got my name?

You didn’t go to Joe’s party last week?

No … I decided not to.

Fuck! the man bellowed. Sarah saw Jason’s head pop up from behind the table to look at the man, then immediately duck back down. Good, she thought sarcastically, surrounded by heroes, except one.

Hey! she responded with an equal amount of angst, I don’t know what you are looking for, but I don’t need the attitude.

Sorry, sorry! The vulture threw his wings up in defense. I just really need this device. It’s not your fault and I shouldn’t be lashing out. He attempted to smile again and Sarah made a half-hearted attempt as well. Her eyes flicked back and forth as the pause in conversation swelled past awkward, paused briefly in unwieldy and finally wound up at problematic.

During the silence Sarah watched her only customer, Jason, use an exaggerated sneaking step to slowly exit the store behind the man. As the door clicked shut the man twisted around, his long coat swooshing around him, but Jason was already gone.

Sarah took advantage of the silence bubble bursting and asked OK. Is there anything else I can help you with then? She headed out from behind the counter to restore the comics left out by Jason to their proper place.

Yes, sorry again. Let me start over. I’m Dean Lawrence. He reached out a gloved hand as he came over to the same area. Sarah shook it quickly and returned to sorting the books.

Sarah, she said shortly.

So I heard Joe will be having another party this weekend. I can’t make it unfortunately, but you should definitely check it out. He tried to lean casually against the boxes of comics but for some reason it seemed inappropriate and Sarah found herself rolling her eyes as she dropped a bagged and boarded Amazing Spider-man #387 into the bin.

Did I hear ‘party’? Sounds like I’m just in time The vulture’s neck rotated 180 degrees to look at the newcomer. Sarah waved behind his back and provided a very short theatrical performance of a woman annoyed by their comic book customer and looking for a way out.

Madison Seyton was Sarah’s best friend since grade school. She was the shock to Sarah’s awe. Madison was wearing ripped jeans, she had bought them that way. She had a lumber jacket with the arms tied around her waist and another she was wearing. Her hair was shaved up one side and sparkled in a teased out flow from the other side of her head. It was mostly purple, but it darkened towards the ends until it was jet black about half-way down her back. She had maroon Doc Martin high cuts unlaced with the tongue folded over. A round button was mounted on each tongue, a smiley face on one and a skull on the other.

Madison strutted directly up to Dean. Nice look, she said putting her hand out with the back upwards as