To the Time Machine! - Part 11

The Past

Buies Creek

High atop the theatre, fine arts building


Facing a carnivorous carnation several stories tall, Lorma felt foolish for being worried back when she was cornered by a mere three velociraptors. Truth be told, she'd sworn off religion. Now, she felt foolish for praying at all back in Part 6 of this story. Prior to that slip, she hadn't prayed since she left Doom Valley so many years ago. She long ago gave up faith for a concept she could hold in her hand.

"Stand back, I'm going to fell this tree once and for all," Lorma told Spitler.

"Oh, really, how you going to do that?" Spitler said with, believe it or not, sarcasm.

"Fabulous secret powers were revealed to me the day I held aloft my battle axe and said," she said, but did not get to deliver her incantation. The vegetation must have sensed the danger it was in. A large trunk of a vine had wrapped around Lorma, pressing her arms to her sides, squeezing the air out of her.

The Ax hit the roof with a sad THUNK.

Spitler rushed forward to lend aide. He dodged a leafy tendril, bent down, and reached for the Axe. He nearly fell over with momentum and surprise when it did not move. He strained, but could not pick it up off the ground, or even budge it.

"Only I can wield the Ax," Lorma wheezed, fighting for every word, every breath.

"Now you tell me," he replied.


Spitler cast off his great coat and tossed aside his fur hat. It was too hot for such garments, but he normally wore them anyway. Today, he could afford no such luxuries. They were slowing him down. With the coat out of the way, plain to see hanging from his belt were his two most trusted weapons.

He unsheathed the Socialist Sickle. When it whistled through the air, Spitler remembered the farmers back in Russia toiling in the fields. He pulled the People's Hammer from its loop. The weight of the hammer's head brought back memories of the industrial workers building a better Union. The two tools together represented the agricultural and industrial workers uniting for revolution.

God, I hate those guys, he thought.

The problem with socialism and especially communism was that when wealth is redistributed and everyone is equally dirt poor, there is no incentive to go the extra mile to succeed. You get the same ill-treatment no matter how hard you work on a given day. The bar is lowered to the lowest common denominator.

That was where Spitler came in. He was the highest common denominator. His work as a commissar was to ensure properly motivated citizens. When the Soviet Union collapsed, Spitler's tireless work for the cause was all for naught.

These former Tools of the Revolution were now Implements for Imperialism, no less deadly for their political permutation.

"Get some!" Spitler shouted up at the giant plant. He sliced, diced, and tenderized as much as he could, repeating the phrase, "Get some!" with every attack he landed.

The Political Officer hacked at the pythonic protrusion that ensnared Lorma Doom. It was not easy. The vine seemed to grow stronger with every moment. Finally he lifted both hammer and sickle above his head, growled a fierce bear of a growl, and slammed the two mighty symbols of the workers down on the vine.

The battered branch was obliterated on the spot.

Lorma sucked in the air, color slowly returning to her cheeks. Interpret that how you will.

Spitler held off demon dogwood while Lorma Doom recovered her oxygen and her wits. She could only guess how many ribs she'd cracked. When she stooped to fetch her Ax, the pain was searing. Fighting back tears, she lifted the battle axe.

The pods sailed through the air like artillery, exploding on impact, but Spitler hammered home some points, returning many of the pods back to sender before they could detonate.

But there were too many. The vile pods unleashed clouds of pollen. Spitler could not hold his breath forever, and soon he sneezed more than he fought.

Vines wrapped around his ankles. Tendrils pried his weapons from his hands. Kicking at the limbs, Spitler rolled over and landed on his favorite machine gun. He had dropped it when he doffed his coat.

He pumped the advancing jungle full of lead before collapsing in a sneezing fit.

Lorma had to act.

"A chop for Justice is a chop for the Empire!" Lorma Doom shouted. Bearing the unbearable pain, she held the Ax aloft. It glowed an intimidating purple. “I have the Rhythm!”

It was the goofiest thing Spitler had ever seen. But it worked like a charm:

Every stalk, shoot, tendril, vine, branch, and runner that came their way was absolutely obliterated under the Great Ax. Spitler did what he could with his Moshin PPSh-41, which was a lot, but submachine guns were not designed to render plant life into plant death. An Axe, of course, was built for just that.

And if Spitler didn’t know better, he’d swear the Ax was bigger now.

The downside was that a glowing Ax drew the furious flora’s attention like a porch light draws moths. Although, in this case, Mothra might be a more fitting simile.

Horticulture and Battle Axe culture were natural enemies. This was a blood-chlorophyll rivalry dating back hundreds of years.

How many parts of this story are going to be dedicated to fighting this giant plant monster? Spitler wondered. At least one too many.