To read episodes one and two of The Adventures of Grant Peeples and find out about his upcoming show on May 2 in Davie, FL, go to:
Grant and Pablo were siting around the kitchen table busily studying for their upcoming annual CTTEU’s (Continuing Time Travelers’ Educational Units) when they heard the familiar sound of the Grant Alarm coming from the other room.
“I’ll get it, boss,” Pablo said as he put down his study book and Bloody Mary and then scampered off to Grant’s office.
Patiently waiting beside the vintage 1867 Edison Gold And Stock Ticker-tape machine as it noisily banged out a secret message from Time Travel Headquarters, Pablo scanned the extruding message with wide eyes. This is not good, he thought to himself. No, this was not good at all.
Tearing out the finally completed message, Pablo dashed back to the kitchen and handed the decoded printout to his time traveling partner. Grant put down his Mint Julep and, after silently reading the message to himself, let out a long sigh. Without a word, he rose from his seat and started walking toward the hallway broom closet.
“Boss, wait,” shouted Pablo as he ran after Grant. “Where are you going?”
Grant opened the closet door and Pablo just managed to dash in behind him before it closed again. Not even registering Pablo’s presence, Grant firmly kicked the mop bucket on the floor and the closet immediately began its customary descent into the Earth’s mantle. Pablo looked up nervously at Grant as eons of bedrock slid by them. Suddenly, the broom closet reached bottom, the door opened and Grant walked determinedly across their subterranean, secret time-traveling laboratory to a locked cabinet on the other side of the cavernous room. After dialing the secret combination into the tumblers embedded in the bomb and bullet proof doors, Grant pulled them open to reveal his dark rider cloak and hat hanging from a hook on one side of the cabinet. Across from it on the other side was a small shelf which held a single, bread loaf sized wooden box.
Grant withdrew the cloak and hat, donned them, and then opened the box. Inside, sitting upright in its maroon, satin cradle was a large, oversized, double barreled pocket pistol. Its was the very last Philadelphia Deringer ever made by Henry Deringer himself. Dating from 1868, the initials RTS were forcibly burned into the metal on one side. Grant withdrew it from the box and slid it into the holster pocket of his cloak.
Grant then turned toward the center of the room where the only known working version of H.G. Wells’ 1895 Time Machine sat, complete with modern accouterments like duel-barrel super-chargers, over-head cam turbo-chargers, and vintage 1950 Marco and Burretti purple fuzzy dice. Waiting for him, sitting in the co-pilot seat, tail wagging and a big smile on his face was Pablo. Grant walked over and slumped into the pilot’s seat.
“Set the time dials for April, 30, 1945,” he instructed. Pablo, quickly executed his commander’s order.
“Now get out,” Grant said firmly without looking at Pablo.
“But, boss?” Pablo pleaded, “you can’t do this alone.”
“I have to,” Grant replied. “You know I do.”
Pablo’s eyes began to gloss over as he stared up at Grant. Then without any further words, Grant’s faithful companion slowly stepped down out of the time machine and watched as Grant hesitantly pressed 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 – Pablo found himself standing alone near the middle of their secret time-traveling laboratory whispering quietly to himself, “God’s speed, dark rider.”
A few moments later, Grant and the time machine appeared in a small ante-room of an underground bunker located in central Berlin. As the dust settled around him, Grant could hear the sound of muffled cannon fire repeatedly pounding the ground above him.
Disembarking from the transporter, Grant made his way into the bunker’s central hallway where lieutenants and orderlies hastily ran around and past him without noticing his presence. Making his way down the corridor, invisible to everyone around him, Grant walked toward a room in the back into which everyone else would momentarily run to make their report and then just as hastily exit to carry out their new orders. Standing in the room’s doorway, Grant looked directly at the solitary figure seated nervously in the rooms sole, large sitting chair. The dark haired man with the unmistakable mustache seated in the far corner of the room immediately looked up and locked eyes with Grant.
“Ach,” said the disgruntled figure, “zo, it isht yuh. Zis den rahly isht ze und. Avryvund owt!”
The lieutenants and orderlies in the room stood frozen.
“I zed geht owt!” commanded Hitler, “und no vun isht tu bohzer meh.”
As his servants hastily exited the room thinking they were leaving their fuhrer to himself, Grant slowly entered the room, visible only to the seated demon before him.
“Zo, Grahnt, yuh halv cum tu zee meh ind misht vinal glohry,” Hitler said tersely.
“No, Adolf,” said Grant tightlipped, “there will be no final glory for you, only a final end.”
“Buht Grahnt,” the fuhrer attempted to boast, “mine gloriusht zird reicht haz dun zo mucht fur zeis vurld. How culd zer noht beh und gloriusht unding?”
“You have brought nothing but pain to the world, Adolf,” Grant responded, “and you won’t be allowed to bring any more.”
“Paihn,” cried out Hitler, “vhat du yuh knohw uv paihn, Grahnt. Ve gahv ze vurld zo muwch und yuh jusht tuk und tuk und tuk.”
“Gave?” questioned Grant, “destroyed is more like it.”
“Destrukshun?” Adolf sneered, “ yuh hav nut zeen destruskshun yeht, fur en und fehw momuntz, I vil unleesh ze mosht gloriesht destrukshun uhf yur ahlide furzes.”
“Meaning what?” Grant asked.
“Meenund,” said Hitler, “zat ve halv perfechted ze furst vurking atohmic bohmb und gesh ver ut isht, Grahnt?”
Grant did not respond, but just waited.
“Yuh arh shtandung zix phete abuhv ut!” the fuhrer beamed.
Grant looked down and noticed the contrast of the floor’s freshly poured concrete as compared to that of the room’s older walls and ceiling.
“Und yuh zee disht?” the fuhrer asked Grant as he pointed at a small button embedded in the wall next to his chair. “Vun presz uf daht buhton und ahl oft Berhlin vanushez vit meh.”
“Only if you can reach it in time,” Grant stated as he slowly slid the antique derringer from his cloak’s pocket.
“Ach, Returhn Tooh Zender!” Hitler cried astounded as he nervously eyed the deringer in Grant’s hand. “Zo, zaht isht yur plahn, mihne Grahnt. Vell, iht vil noht vurk.”
Then the fuhrer’s hand sprang from his side. Suddenly, two loud cracks exploded from the sitting room, filling and echoing throughout the bunker: one for the devil, and one to disable the button in the wall. Immediately, a women’s scream could be heard coming down the hallway and through the room’s open doorway. Eva Braun ran past the invisible dark rider and then collapsed sobbing next to her dead leader.
Grant slid the pistol back into its pocket holster, exited the room, transversed the main corridor filled with dumbstruck and bewildered underlings, and returned to his original point of entry. Climbing into the time machine he paused, listening to the combination of grief stricken shouts from within the bunker and the never ending pounding of cannon fire from above. He then slowly set the transporter’s dials in return mode and softly pressed the green “Go” button.
A few moments later, Grant found himself back in the subterranean, secret time-traveling laboratory. Pablo walked over and handed him a freshly made Seelbach Cocktail.
“Boss,” said Pablo softly, “it ain’t easy being a super hero.”
“No, Pablo,” replied Grant blankly as he sat in the time machine and took a long sip from the drink his friend had just handed him. “It’s not.”