Chet

Every Monday morning, he wakes up remembering pieces of the same dream.

Eagle…apocalypse…rodeo…Giza…Tang?

“I never got to drink Tang when I was kid,” Chet offers this to his wife while brushing his teeth, and because she was a dentist in a past life she understands perfectly. It is, after all, Monday morning, and they always share dreams, even those bolt-upright Wednesday dreams when his brain trekked a Magellan’s voyage across existence, and there’s no peace until the two of them smell the doughnuts (but order coffee and share a cinnamon twist) down the block at the pastry shack that doesn’t mind people coming in with pajamas under their overcoats.

His wife pushes several wooden hangers from right to left before freeing the hanger with the nickel black cloak. “Hmm. And did it give you any insight into the amulet?”

The amulet around his neck still pulses burnt sienna, meaning, as near as any sage can tell, that humanity’s situation is every bit as dire as it was yesterday. Chet spits Colgate’s whitening paste into the sink. “Nah. It’s like a broken record. Which means we can go ice skating later and never worry once about missing an appointment.”

“No caltrops?” she pauses by the lockers. “Or maybe a single bardiche?”
“Completely unnecessary.”
“A Soduku logic trap? I could fit it in my handbag.”
He pushes the button until the gold tie comes around. “We’ll need it at Sturgis.”
“We have to bring something.”
“Just don’t forget the Zamboni repellent.”