Grant Peeples was sitting around his time-traveling retreat in northern Florida enjoying a nice early spring afternoon when suddenly the Grant Alert could be heard beeping in the other room.
“Don’t worry, boss,” said Pablo the time traveling chihuahua telepathically, “I’ll get it.”
Pablo put down his Bloody Mary and quietly slipped off the couch across from where Grant was sipping his Pina Colada and scampered off into the other room. There, the vintage 1867 Edison Gold And Stock Ticker-tape machine, noisily banged out a secret message from Time Travel Headquarters. Pablo waited patiently for it to finish spitting out the message, then tore off the expelled tape and dutifully trotted it back to Grant. Pablo then resumed his position on the sofa across from Grant taking a long draw on his much missed Bloody Mary.
Grant read over the message and then turned to Pablo.
“Well fella,” Grant said out loud, “looks like we’re off to 1492. Seems Christopher Columbus has changed his mind about discovering America and has decided to just go hang out in Cuba instead.”
“Not a good thing,” Pablo replied telepathically. “If he doesn’t discover America, then we’ll cease to exist and you won’t be able to play your 8pm to 11pm May 2nd, 2014, Music Land show at Your Big Picture Café.”
“Yes,” concurred Grant, “and that’s the great place in Davie with free admission and great pizza. We can’t let that happen, so let’s go.”
He and Pablo rose from their resting places, took one final long draw on their drinks, and then hustled off down the hallway to the broom closet. Grant opened the door, they both hopped in and Grant firmly kicked the mop bucket by his foot. Suddenly, the floor began to descend into the Earth, further and further down, as Grant and Pablo patiently twittled their thumbs and paws while waiting for the secret elevator platform to reach bottom. As the eons of bedrock slid by, each time traveler patiently waited in contemplation of what their new adventure would bring them.
Suddenly the descent ended and Grant and Pablo hopped out into their sub-terrainian, secret time-traveling laboratory. In the middle of the room sat the only known working version of H.G. Wells’ 1895 Time Machine, complete with modern accouterments like duel-barrel super-chargers, over-head cam turbo-chargers, and vintage 1950 Marco and Burretti purple fuzzy dice. Running across the room to the wardrobe section where they donned time-period appropriate attire, they hustled back to the center of the room and took their respective seats inside the behemoth feat of engineering.
“Set the time-travel dials to October 10, 1492, Pablo,” instructed Grant.
“Aye-aye, captain,” Pablo telepathically confirmed.
“Okay, here we go!” Grant exclaimed as he hit the green “Go” button located on the center console. Suddenly, a cacophony of bangs, groans and sputters filled the room as a swirl of lights and dust enveloped the heaving and lifting time machine and then – BANG – they were gone!
Adjusting their eyes to the bright mid-day Atlantic sunshine, Grant and Pablo stepped out of their time locomotive and onto the wooden decks of the Santa Maria. There, next to the helm they found Christopher Columbus scanning the horizon with this single focal length monocular.
“Hey Chris,” shouted Grant.
“A-Grant-a,” called back Christopher, “A-a what-a are-a you-a doin-a here-a?”
“Hey, old friend,” Grant replied, “just stopped in to see how the exploring gig is doing for you?”
“Wonderful-a, Grant-a,” Christopher confirmed, “we’re-a headed-a off-a to-a Cuba-a for-a some-a nice-a Havana-a cigars-a. You-a wanna-a go-a with-a us-a?”
“Sounds cool, Chris,” Grant admitted, “but aren’t you supposed to be discovering America in the next few days?”
“Oh-a, America-a, America-a,” Christopher moaned, “what’s-a the-a big-a deal-a about-a America-a? Like-a that-a lump-a of-a dirt-a is-a ever-a gonna-a be-a anything-a, huh-a?”
“Well, Chris,” Grant responded, “it may not look like much now, but in a few centuries it’s gonna be the home of some really impressive financial scandals.”
“You-a don’t-a say-a, Grant-a,” Christopher said nonplused, “and-a that’s-a more-a important-a than-a a-a good-a Havana-a cigar-a?”
“Well,” Grant quickly thought, “it’ll one day be the home of the most free and brave hydroponic marijuana growers anywhere. Now how’s that sound to you, Chris?”
“What-a makes-a you-a think-a I-a prefer-a marijuana-a to-a cigars-a?” Christopher asked.
Suddenly Pablo could be hear barking next to a hatch in the middle of the Santa Maria’s deck. Grant quickly dashed over, open it and looked down inside.
“Good boy, Pablo,” he congratulated his time-traveling companion. Turning to Chris, he replied, “Come on Chris, what do you think you’re gonna do in Havana with all those crates of brownie mix you’re carrying in your hold?”
“O-a kay-a, you-a got-a me-a there-a, Grant-a,” Christopher admitted. Then turning to his first mate he cried out, “Giuseppe-a, change-a our-a course-a to-a the-a right-a. We’re-a going-a to-a America-a.”
“Good move, Chris,” Grant approved. “Well, my friend, we gotta get going so we can prepare for our 8pm to 11pm May 2nd, 2014 Music Land show at Your Big Picture Café.”
“You-a mean-a the-a place-a out-a in-a Davie-a with-a free-a admission-a and-a great-a pizza-a?” asked Christopher.
“That’s the one,” Grant said.
“Nice-a place-a,” Christopher commented, then added, “but-a before-a you-a go-a, take-a this-a with-a you-a.”
Handing Grant a small box, the two old friends shook hands, then Grant and Pablo re-boarded the time machine and blasted back to the future.
A few days later, as they settled into their afternoon repose, Pablo with his refreshed Bloody Mary and Grant with a nice Tom Collins, Pablo telepathically said, “Hey, Grant, maybe it’s time we finally opened that box you brought back.”
“Oh, alright,” Grant agreed as he rose and went into the kitchen. Reaching into the back of an upper cupboard shelf, he carefully retrieved the satin-bag covered box Christopher Columbus had given him. Dropping an ounce of sensimilla gold on the counter next to it, he slowly slid the nearly 600 year old box out of it’s cover and smiled as he stared down at the label: Mrs. Columbus’ Sure-Fire, Stone Oven BrownieMix since1492.