Epic Exploits in Temporal Tomfoolery: An Overly Epic Time Travel Tale

By Bryan Charles Vish

Dive into the hilariously chaotic world of "Epic Exploits in Temporal Tomfoolery: An Overly Epic Time Travel Tale," where everyday monotony collides with the extraordinary possibility of time travel. Follow Joshua Miller, an average man trapped in a mundane life, whose evenings are a masterclass in mediocrity, lounging on a worn

• Language: English
• Publisher: Bryan Charles Vish
• Release date: Jan 9, 2024
• ISBN: 9798218356026

Book preview

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Fast Food, Fast Life

Chronicles of a Couch Potato

This story is the story of a loner, a loner, who was a bit gullible. Gullible as a way of putting it nicely. If I’m being honest, he was flat out naïve. Synonyms for sure, but naïve is slightly worse as it implies a lack of wisdom. And this person was indeed someone who was easily tricked, overly trusting, and lacked acumen. The loner in question’s name is Joshua Miller. His mother chose the name Joshua because it was the fourth most popular name for boys the year he was born. His name and its popularity have nothing to do with the story; it’s just an insight into the type of people who raised him, giving you some insight into Josh’s personality. He was an average-looking man, and like most Americans his age, he was slightly overweight; due mostly to a diet that consisted almost entirely of McDonald’s, Hungry Howie’s Pizza, and Slurpee’s from Seven-Eleven.

Josh's physique was a testament to his undying loyalty to the fast-food trinity. His body shape, which could be best described as 'couch-potato chic,' was sculpted by a rigorous routine of supersized meals and sugar-laden Slurpees. The vibrant colors of fast-food wrappers littered his car's floor, creating a mosaic of poor dietary choices. Josh often mused that if archaeologists of the future were to excavate his vehicle, they'd mistakenly assume it was a mobile shrine dedicated to the gods of processed food.

Our protagonist wasn't just an average Joe; he was the epitome of what you'd call 'run-of-the-mill'. His fashion sense, if you could call it that, was as bland as his diet – a walking billboard for whatever t-shirt was on sale at Walmart, usually paired with jeans that had seen better days. His hair was a testament to his apathy, always looking like he had just rolled out of bed - which he often had. This 'style', if we dare stretch the term, was complemented by sneakers that had lost their whiteness long ago, now a testament to every muddy puddle and the dusty path he'd meandered through.

Most of his evenings were spent either mindlessly scrolling through social media news feeds (mostly taking tests to discover which famous comic book character he was) or trying to watch entire seasons of television shows on Netflix or Hulu in one sitting. Occasionally, he would mix it up and watch a DVD of something he’d seen a thousand times before, or even a VHS tape, if he was feeling nostalgic. For the most part, his days were a repeated blur of wasted time and youth. Much of his wasted time was spent in a fluorescent tomb that was the retail store in which he worked. Much of Josh’s time there was spent trying to convince people to buy products and services that they didn’t really need.

His evenings were a masterclass in mediocrity. He'd lounge on a couch that had lost its battle with springs years ago, the upholstery a patchwork of pizza stains and forgotten dreams. The flickering light from his television cast long shadows across his small, cluttered living room – a museum of unfulfilled ambitions and bargain bin purchases. The walls, a bland off-white, were decorated with posters of movies he claimed were his favorites, although he'd only watched them when there was absolutely nothing else to do.

As he scrolled through his social media feeds, his expressions ranged from mild amusement to existential dread – the latter especially when he stumbled upon the success stories of his more ambitious high school peers. He'd often pause to stare blankly at the screen, contemplating if his own life story would ever have a plot twist or if it was doomed to be a one-star review.

For Josh, working in the fluorescent-lit retail store was like being a contestant on a never-ending game show where the prizes were mundane conversations and the occasional sarcastic comment from customers who couldn't differentiate between a USB cable and a snake. The air was stale, filled with a symphony of beeps from cash registers and the soul-sucking hum of overhead lights. The aisles were a maze of consumer goods, each one promising happiness yet delivering nothing more than a temporary distraction.

Among the colorful cast at the retail store was Marcy, a cashier whose conspiracy theories were as elaborate as her eye makeup. She firmly believed that barcodes were government tracking devices and often shared this with customers, offering them 'foil-lined' bags for a small fee. Then there was Derek, the stock guy, who had an uncanny ability to turn any conversation into an argument about whether aliens built the pyramids. The customers were no less eccentric. Mrs. Thompson, a regular, once brought in a toaster she claimed was sending her Morse code messages at breakfast. Josh spent an hour convincing her it was just a faulty wire, not an alien transmission.

Mr. Cretin, Josh's boss, was a character straight out of a sitcom about corporate life – a caricature of management with his attempts at authority that were as effective as a screen door on a submarine. His attempts at facial hair were so futile, they could be a case study in resilience. And his fashion sense – or lack thereof – was a confusing mix of dad-on-vacation and trying-too-hard-to-impress. When he walked around the store, it was like watching a penguin waddle through the Sahara – out of place and painfully unaware of it.

His daily grind at the retail store was a masterclass in the art of pointless persuasion. He roamed the aisles, a reluctant hunter, armed with an arsenal of unnecessary gadgets and gizmos. Josh’s prey? Unsuspecting customers who wandered in, often just seeking refuge from the harsh realities of the outside world. With the finesse of a seasoned salesman, Josh spun tales of tech utopias, where every gadget was a key to happiness. The absurdity of convincing a septuagenarian that they needed the latest smartwatch was not lost on him. He often wondered if his sales pitches sounded as convincing as a politician's promise during an election campaign.

Josh's day often included deciphering the corporate manual, a tome of contradictions that made less sense than a diet plan at a buffet. The latest policy included greeting customers with a 'joyous and jubilant tone' regardless of the situation. So, when Mrs. Green stormed in, fuming about her phone bill, Josh greeted her with the enthusiasm of a cheerleader at a pep rally. The look of confusion on her face as he chirped, Happy to help you with your outrageously high bill today! was a small win in his otherwise mundane day.

He really wanted them to buy as his job depended on it. Josh was a customer service representative for a large corporation; that was a subsidiary of a parent company, operated by a conglomerate, which belonged to a guy who lived in Sandusky, Ohio. A rich prick who had neither ever stepped foot into one of his stores, nor knew anything about how they operated. 

Josh often thought that the business of owning companies that merely purchased other companies would be an excellent business to get into himself. You would not have to make products, just become the CEO of a company that does. And what better way to further the idea of American Corporatism could there be? Plus, you’d have the added benefit of never having to work yourself. If you needed something done you could simply hire people in and pay them just enough to not starve to death, all while making outlandish promises of upward mobility. Whatever that means. It must be a very lucrative business. Perhaps one day I could get in on that action, Josh naively thought. 

The days working in the store were long, and the majority of Josh’s time was spent helping people try to understand the complex reasoning as to why their cell phone bills were so high. Then, he would have to try and explain the new elaborate plans that somehow would make the customer’s lives simpler. More often than not, people would meet him with blank stares after he explained the new, more straightforward package. You see, you should switch from this first plan, where you had to use the formula x equals a plus b times c minus two a squared, all over b times the square root of two. Which was a bit too confusing, Josh explained to a customer while feigning amusement, Now we can switch you over to this new plan where all you have to do to calculate your monthly bill is use the formula a squared plus b squared equals c squared divided by x over y. You see, it’s much simpler. Then all you have to do is factor in the monthly cost of your phone! Plus, tax. 

What made his days seem longer was his boss, Mr. Cretin. A stout and burly man, if he was able to grow a beard, he’d very much resemble a Dwarf from Tolkien Lore. The overlord of the retail realm, he was an interesting blend of misplaced confidence and sartorial disaster. His attempts at facial hair were as futile as trying to teach quantum physics to a goldfish. Each follicle on his face seemed to be engaged in a battle of wills, refusing to cooperate with its neighbors. His daily attire screamed 'fashion faux pas' louder than a megaphone at a library. The polo shirts, which he wore with a religious fervor, were in colors so bright they could guide ships through foggy nights. The khaki pants were always hitched up a little too high, suggesting either a secret aspiration to be a 1950s school principal or a deep misunderstanding of gravity.

Josh's own journey through the educational system was less a tale of academic achievement and more a series of unfortunate events that would make Lemony Snicket cringe. In kindergarten, he famously mistook a glue stick for chapstick, leading to a rather sticky situation and his first, but not last, encounter with the taste of Elmer's. It was a fitting start for a school career marked by a distinct lack of common sense.

In middle school, he once spent an entire science fair presenting a baking soda volcano he believed was an actual model of how the Earth's core functioned. His earnest explanation about 'lava toothpaste' still haunted the hallways of Lincoln Middle School. High school wasn't much kinder to Josh. He once tried to start a club dedicated to searching for leprechauns, firmly believing they were merely misunderstood and not mythical. His club meetings, held in the janitor's closet, were as popular as you'd expect.

Josh's venture into entrepreneurship during college was as brief as it was disastrous. He once tried selling 'pre-chewed' pencils for students who liked to chew but didn’t enjoy the effort. The venture ended abruptly when his only customer, a confused freshman, ended up in the nurse's office with a splinter in his tongue. Another memorable incident was his attempt at starting a 'rent-a-fish' service for lonely students. The business sank faster than his fish when he forgot to feed them over spring break.

Mr. Cretin on occasion tried to do so, but his face always wound up looking as though he had a terrible case of mange. Most days he would be dressed in a pastel-colored polo shirt with every button done. The shirt was kept firmly tucked into his khaki pants, which were secured with a jet-black belt. On his feet, Mr. Cretin sported the most awkward-looking wing-tipped dress shoes that were far too formal for the casual setting of a retail environment. In short, he was your typical corporate stooge — a right kiss ass. 

Mr. Cretin strode through the retail store that was his domain; his chest puffed out as if he was compensating for something. Despite the entire shop being roughly the size of two studio apartments, it took him twelve minutes and eighteen seconds to walk over to the main desk. Every customer had to be spoken to, whether they wanted the attention or not. Most very clearly wanted to be left to their shopping, yet were impeded by Mr. Cretin’s awkward form of salesmanship. Hey, buddy! Hey guy! You doing alright? Mr. Cretin would interrupt the customer’s train of thought. 

I’m good, the customer would respond, with a clear tone of wanting to be left alone. 

Well, that’s good. That’s good. Hey, can I interest you in our extended warranties? Mr. Cretin asked, oblivious to the customer. 

I’m good. 

That’s all right. That’s okay. You let me or one of my sales reps know if you change your mind! 

It’s a stylus that costs ten bucks 

Mr. Cretin stared at the customer blankly, clearly unaware of the useless nature of an extended warranty on such an inexpensive item. The blank stare lasted for an oddly long moment until the customer slowly turned away, clearly disturbed by the interaction. With the customer’s back firmly turned to him, Mr. Cretin sauntered away, continuing on his blundering quest. Seeing that Mr. Cretin was now bumbling his way toward the main desk, Josh quickly put his phone away to make it appear as if he was doing something useful by company standards. 

Traditionally, Josh actively avoided one-on-one conversations with his manager. Whenever Mr. Cretin did wrangle him into a corner, he always got right up next to Josh. Creepily, Mr. Cretin would wrap his arm around Josh’s shoulders. Josh would be yanked in closer, seemingly to make the moment even more uncomfortable. The odor from his breath wafting over, causing all in smelling distance to gag. The fowl stench of gingivitis that Mr. Cretin attempted to cover up with breath mints. Even after his boss would leave, the odor from those terrible breath mints and an unclean mouth would linger in the air. It took all of Josh’s strength to not vomit from the horrific smell as he was pulled in like a fly to a spider’s web. 

Hey, guy! Hey, guy! Mr. Cretin’s wild call would sound, I want to go over some sales techniques with you. Have to drive those sales! Gotta drive those sales! 

Absolutely, Josh regrettably replied. 

You gotta get in there and make a little discovery! You gotta find out what kind of customer they are! Cretin excitedly droned on, the stench from his mouth engulfing the surrounding area, Because we have three types of customers. We have our mission, we have our project, and we have our inspirational customers. Moreover, you have to know which one they are. You have to know because they all have special needs! All of our customers have special needs. 

Yes, Josh managed to squeak out. 

Mr. Cretin swung his arm wide, presenting the store with finite space. As he did, Josh noticed that not only was Mr. Cretin, not a fan of brushing his teeth, but apparently underarm deodorant as well. As the two surveyed the room, Josh received a hefty dose of the funk from Mr. Cretin’s pits. 

And all of these customers are just waiting for you to sell them something. They want you to sell them something. They may act like they don’t, but they do. As they say, ‘No means yes!’ 

Josh pulled away from Mr. Cretin’s grasp, unable to stand anymore. He pretended to cough to hide his body, beginning to dry heave, Yes—urgh—sir, Mr. Cretin. Although, I think you may have gotten that turn of phrase wrong. I've gotta run to the restroom. 

Hurriedly, Josh power walked to the back. Mr. Cretin continued in his typically oblivious manner. The man was completely unaware of how detestable those around him found him to be. Worse still, he didn’t care. He simply pushed forward in his blissful ignorance of proper social etiquette and basic hygiene. 

By the end of his shift, Josh was always exhausted. After a long day of using math equations, he never thought he would use beyond tenth-grade algebra (as well as dodging Mr. Cretin as much as possible), he would go home, watch Netflix, and go to sleep. Rinse and repeat. He was not entirely alone, however. He lived with his mother, Karen, who oddly enough had the fourth most popular girl's name from the year she was born. Unbeknownst to her, though, her name was chosen not because of its spot on the most popular name list, but because her mother was a closeted lesbian. She opted to name her daughter Karen after her lifelong crush. The fact that it was also the fourth most popular name was merely a coincidence.

The neighborhood where Josh resided was a perfect slice of suburban purgatory. Each house was a carbon copy of the next, a parade of beige and boredom. The lawns were manicured to within an inch of their life, a green so uniform it looked like it had been colored in by a particularly obsessive-compulsive child. The community was the type where nothing ever happened, and if it did, it was the talk of the town for weeks. The highlight of the year was the annual block party, an event so devoid of excitement it made watching paint dry seem like an extreme sport. The neighbors were an eclectic mix of nosy retirees, overly enthusiastic PTA parents, and that one guy who seemed to be perpetually mowing his lawn. It was a place where excitement went to die, and the most rebellious act you could commit was not sorting your recycling correctly.

Josh's relationship with his mother, Karen, was a complex tapestry of maternal nagging and his artful dodging. Their interactions were a dance of her trying to inject some ambition into him and him expertly sidestepping any form of responsibility.

Joshua, have you thought about what you're doing with your life? Karen would ask, her tone a mix of concern and frustration as she maneuvered around his latest 'invention' sprawled across the living room floor – a contraption that was supposed to fold laundry but looked more like a robot in a mid-life crisis.

Yep, got it all planned out, Mom, Josh would reply, not looking up from his video game, his fingers dancing over the controller like a pianist in a trance. I'm on the fast track to becoming a professional couch potato. It's a growth industry.

Karen would sigh, her aspirations for Josh dissipating like steam from her ever-present cup of herbal tea. Maybe you could at least try to find a job that doesn't involve asking people if they want fries with that?

Josh would just shrug, his attention never wavering from his game. But I'm building essential skills for my future career, Mom. One day, those fry-asking skills will come in handy. You'll see.

Their conversations usually ended with Karen muttering something about wasted potential and Josh escaping into his room, a sanctuary of fast-food wrappers and dreams as grandiose as they were unattainable.

They would talk here and there throughout the week. Mostly just simple pleasantries. Occasionally, they would discuss social and political issues. Usually, those conversations would not go anywhere, however. Karen did not follow any social or political issues. When it came to social issues, such as crime or poverty, she preferred to blame the upbringing of those involved, rather than the economic conditions that influenced the situation. As the conversation turned to politics, she would quickly side with whoever scared her the most about the possibility of change, no matter how slight, whomever threw around hot-button words such as socialist when describing sound policies, or whoever validated her personal religious beliefs. 

Josh, pizza box in hand, lingered at the edge of the living room where Karen was engrossed in the latest barrage of infomercials. The TV screen flashed with the enthusiasm of a salesperson peddling a revolutionary garden hose. You know, Mom, Josh started, a half-smirk forming as he leaned against the doorway, we're living in an age where they sell us solutions to problems we didn't even know we had. Like, who wakes up and thinks, 'My garden hose just isn't flexible enough'?

Karen spared him a brief glance, her eyes darting between Josh and the miraculous hose on screen. That's nice, Joshua. Maybe you should invent something useful like that, she said, her tone suggesting that 'useful' and 'Joshua' were rarely used in the same sentence.

Josh shook his head, amusement and disbelief mingling in his voice. It's all a ploy, Mom. We buy stuff we don't need, with money we don't have, to impress people we don't even like. Consumerism at its finest. He gestured towards the TV, where the host had now transitioned to a set of knives that could cut through steel. Look at that. Because at some point, everyone apparently needs to saw through a steel pipe during dinner prep.

And social media, he continued, pushing away from the doorway, preparing to retreat to his room, it's a circus of filters and fake smiles. Everyone's competing for the title of 'Least Authentic Life.' We're more connected than ever, yet no one's really saying anything. He chuckled dryly. It's like a global game of 'Who's the Best Pretender?'

Karen, now half-listening, half-watching the unyielding parade of products, hummed her agreement. Mmhmm, very true.

Josh started up the stairs, pausing as he heard the familiar jingle of the evening news beginning. The screen now showed an anchor, gravitas, and hairspray in equal measure, launching into the day's headlines. The absurdity of it all – the sensationalism, the fear-mongering – was not lost on him.

That's our cue, reality's latest sitcom, Josh quipped, yet Karen's attention was already captured by the anchor's ominous tones.

We’re losing our country, Karen could often be heard squawking at the talking heads of Fox News, They’re just taking away everything! I can’t even say Merry Christmas anymore! 

To avoid further headaches in his day, Josh would typically roll his eyes and head straight for his room. Josh's room was a shrine to half-baked ideas and nostalgia. The walls were adorned with posters of rock bands whose concerts he'd planned to attend 'next time they were in town' - a phrase that had become his mantra of missed opportunities. His desk, a cluttered mess of aspirations, was littered with half-finished projects, each one a testament to his fleeting attention span. There was a model airplane with one wing, a testament to his short-lived aerospace engineering phase, and a guitar with two broken strings, a souvenir from his 'I'm going to learn this, really' phase. The room was dotted with old college textbooks, each one more pristine than the last, their spines uncracked, content as untouched as a gym membership in February.

Occasionally he would engage, but that would simply result in a twenty-minute rant that made no sense, in which Karen would typically contradict herself in every other sentence. Having a nice warm pizza in his hands that he didn’t want to go cold, on this day