Just A Moment Of Your Time

It was Sunday. The second Sunday in August. The apartment was small, but not cramped. The walls were lined with a faded floral wallpaper, added by a resident past, and Harold was enjoying his tea. He quite liked Sunday. It was a day where nobody would come around and knock on his door. No bills. No mail. Just peace.

At least, that's how it usually was. Today was something different. Because on that particular Sunday, there was a knock on the door. A quiet one, from somebody who wasn't bold enough to want to wake Harold up. It was just loud enough to alert him from his newspaper and warm mug.

He rose, joints creaking and slippers fluffing, and shuffled over to the peep-hole. On the other side of the threshold, there was a well-dressed man. He wore a dark brown suit, plain blue tie, and dirty glasses. His hair looked as though he'd recently been wearing a hat, that had been lost to the wind. Normally, Harold would have ignored the solicitor, gone back to his chair, and resumed reading. But today, he didn't.

Instead, he opened the door.

"Greetings." said the solicitor. "My name is Gerald, and I need only a moment of your time." He smiled, a phony but sentimental gesture. He set his briefcase down, and adjusted his tie. Harold just watched him, not sure why he had opened the door, and not quite able to think about why he couldn't think about why.

Gerald set his suitcase down, and clasped his hands together."So, I'm sure you have many friends and relatives. You've know them in the past. But do you know them tomorrow?"

Harold blinked. "I... what?"

Gerald grinned, a genuine one this time. "So, you haven't heard the Good Word?"

Harold had not heard any such word. He shook his head.

"My dear friend, you have been living in a dark age. Constantly looking over your shoulder to memories half-gazed over by your own mind. Wouldn't you like to see the memories before they happen, to get ready?"

Frowning, Harold crossed his arms. "So, like... a fortune-reader?"

A waggling finger was thrust into Harold's face. "Not just any fortune, my friend, but one absolutely-positively guaranteed to work. You'll know everything you ever needed to know about what's coming up. It's like having advanced tickets to the Big Game!"

Harold could spot a phony when he saw one. The cheap smile, the dirty facade... this guy was a carpetbagger, through and through. "Prove it, then."

If possible, the solicitor known as Gerald grew an even wider grin. "Right away..." his arms lurched into the suitcase, unsnapping the hinges and wrestling with the cords, until he revealed a massive, oily hunk of metal. Immediately, the reeking odor of fish and dock rot permeated the hallway. Harold stepped back, aghast.

"Wha , guh-" he gagged. "What is that?"

Gerald held it clasped between his hands, the oily juices dripping down his fingers, leaving thin red trails in their wake. "Ah, this is what I have been promising you. Touch it."

Harold hesitated.

"Go on, touch it."

Tentatively reaching out, Harold leaned into the device. Swiftly, a blade ejected from the front of its cobbled form, and pricked his outstretched hand. Recoiling in pain and surprise, Harold failed to notice the machine clutching itself as it savored the fresh memories, the new experiences that his lifetime had been enhanced with. Smoke billowed from its many openings and valves, until at last, an oily strip of paper printed out. Gerald snatched it, and peered past his grime-coated spectacles.

"Do you talk to your sister, much?"

Harold looked up, distracted from his distraction. "N-no... why?"

"You won't be talking for quite some time, sorry. But it proves my machine to be functional, yes?"

One blink. "H-hey... what the hell are... what're you talking about?"

"Your sister... Gloria, or something similar, the paper blurred a bit... she died in an accident sixteen minutes ago."

Behind them, Harold's phone began to ring.

"That's probably them now. Are you ready for the news?"

"I... you're fucking lying." Harold backed away, looking over his shoulder to the phone ringing off the hook.

"Here you are now, Harold. Looking over your shoulder to the past, once again."

The phone continued its ringing, but Harold stopped, and turned 'round to face the solicitor. "What do you... what do you want from me?"

"I want you to pay the price for my miraculous little device!"

"... What do you want?"

"You've already given it to me, Harry. Can I call you Harry? Your life, your blood, your past-present-future. This machine is tied to you, Harry. And so am I."

----

When Harold next had regained his faculties, he was sitting in his chair. His hand was unmolested, and the phone was silent. He breathed a sigh of relief.

Then, there was a horrid, ghastly noise.

Over his shoulder, a ticket printed, oily and dark. It read: {{Check the answering machine}}