A discussion about time travel over on Twitter jogged my memory. There was, once upon a time, a time travel story planned for my Reversed Black Maria universe. I discarded it when I chose a darker course for my arc. Officially, time travel is impossible in my universe. But if it weren't, really strange things could happen. By a coincidence, this little fragment is probably the most #PulpRev thing I've ever written.
The following never happened. If it had, it would be 1957, and typical RBM doings would be afoot.
Sid’s voice fizzled in the battered payphone handset. “Who’s the doll, George? You didn’t mention that you have company.”
George glanced out at the DeSoto. She was outside and stretching, her dark hair glistening in the desert sunlight. Why the hell did she do things like that? Things would be so much easier if she listened. With her body, there was no way she’d blend in, short of putting her in a nun’s habit, and he knew better than to even suggest that. But he had to tell Sid something. He had no time to think of anything convincing, but he sure couldn’t tell the truth.
“Sid, she’s six feet of spring steel and hellfire. It’d be better if you forgot you saw her. “
There was static-y silence for a moment. “I wondered how you got out of that scrape,” Sid said eventually. “I’ve got a man covering her. Tell me why I shouldn’t take her out of the picture.”
George laughed. “If you don’t like your man, tell him to take his best shot.”
“What the hell is wrong with you? Do you forget who you used to work for? I’m dead serious.”
“So am I. Shoot. See what happens.”
A long pause, then: “Remember, you asked for it.”
George turned in time to see the first round hit. He heard the shot an instant later. The shooter was a quarter-mile away, to the right.
Raina wiped a mass of blood from her forehead and scented the wind. There was another shot; the driver’s window of the DeSoto exploded, and her blood sprayed down the side of the car. She made no effort to find cover. Suddenly she was gone, moving faster than George could track, dodging from bush to bush through the chaparral.
“Your man’s dead,” George said. “It’ll be a closed casket, too. I hope you’ve got a letter ready for his widow.”
There were unidentifiable noises on the line. Suddenly, it went dead.
Too bad Sid’s not out there in the brush, too, George thought. It would simplify things, and the thought of Raina gutting his lazy, fat skin was satisfying. He replaced the handset and left the phone booth. An instant later he was flying; by the time he realized what was happening, Raina had pinned him to the hood of the car with one hand. In the other she held a heavy M1C sniper rifle as easily as if it were a popsicle. It must have come from Sid’s assassin. Her pink sweater was sodden with blood and she was furious.
“Did you know that guy was going to shoot me?” she demanded.
“Well, yes-”
She picked him up and slammed him down on the hood. His ribs creaked, and the hood ornament gouged his back.
“You said they couldn’t hurt you!” he gasped.
“I said they can’t kill me!” she raged. “But getting shot hurts like a bitch!!”