Hal limped from the wreckage of his t-boned truck as gingerly as he could, wincing at every jostle of his left leg. Half blinded from the blood dripping down his face from a cut on his forehead, he heard the radio of his 2018 Toyota Tacoma:
"Good evening ladies and germs of Abraham Lake… *ksssssh*ay is the first day of Autumn, September the twenty third in the Year of our Good Lord 1983- I'd say don't miss *ssssssssssh*side are gorgeous, but the weather forecast for today is a load of fog."
The local radio man's words didn't penetrate immediately through the pain, but it didn't take long for Hal's brow to furrow.
Every single thing that man on the radio had just said was incorrect.
Abraham Lake? Where the fuck is that? he thought in angry bewilderment, hissing to himself as he tried putting more weight on his less injured leg.
He'd been driving through Macon. It was afternoon. It was a crystal clear day. It was May.
It was 2023.
He wiped his face with the neckline of his T-shirt, looking around himself. Sure enough, he was on Main Street of some nowhere town much smaller than Macon had been, the light of the street lamps barely penetrating the pea-soup-thick fog. A little clock tower slash old-fashioned streetlight was just visible on the other side of the intersection where the wreck was. Shivering, he rubbed his bare arms at the much cooler temp of the night air.
"Starting with local *ssssssssssh*et yourself in a little fender bender, now you can count on Grizzly Grapes Garage for all your car repair needs! Brand new, just had its open*ssssssssssh* off of Main and Tabernacle Street! Wheels, tires, crow bars, pry bars, you name it-"
"The Hell," Hal said flatly, turning to look at the cab of his busted truck, one eyebrow raised. Then he looked up.
Tabernacle Street, the street sign said. And literally right there at the street corner, not even ten feet away, there was a building with the name Grizzly Grapes Garage plastered in bold red lettering and a Yogi-looking cartoon bear eating off a bunch of grapes up top.
"The fuck is this?"
"-jobs, as the owner is taking a little break after their big opening day… in our next story, an epidemic of fu*ssssssssssh* out-of-towners standing in the middle of the street like they've got nothing else to do! Public Service Announcement: Jaywalking is a misdemeanor in the state of *ssssssssssssssh*o get moving, jaybirds! Drivers and ped-"
For a moment, Hal blinked stupidly. Then he gritted his teeth as he twigged on to what was just said, his heart thumping.
"Alright, real funny, guys, I'm sure the YouTube compilation is gonna be a fuckin' riot - it better be, because I'm gonna sue your asses to Jupiter and Mars!"
"-inally, if you're out on the town, you may be wondering where everyone is! Haha, well, wouldn't you like to know, sonny? If you get hungry while you're looting the *ssssssssssssh* around you, visit Fanny's on your six and ring yourself up some sliders - they're the best ones west of the Mississippi! Don't touch that dial, we'll be playing America's hottest hits over the last twelve months! Starting wiiiiiiiiith: Thriller, by Michael Jackson!"
A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.
"Son of a bitch," the man breathed, looking around himself, "Fuckin' whatever this is is high budget as shit."
Sure enough, there was a restaurant behind him called Fanny's Diner.
Hal's heart pumped loudly in his ears. He wasn't some horror flick character holding an idiot ball. There was no way that this was a prank. It was too much, too fast. It was like he'd been teleported to a completely different time and place in an instant, even leaving aside the whacked shit he was getting from the radio. Was he knocked out in a coma? It seemed like the most likely explanation - the situation was dreamlike and surreal enough for it.
Hal paused, looking back to the wreck, and walked over to the other truck which had crashed into him.
"Hey! Y'all alive in there?" he asked, concerned. Throughout all of this, nobody had come out of the other vehicle or made noise.
From further away, the man couldn't see anyone, and he wondered if whoever had fallen over. He got closer, peering in through the passenger window.
… no one. It was empty.
"Fuuuuuuuck this!" Hal exclaimed, stumbling back and jerking at the jostling of his screwed up leg, "OW! Sh- f- ok, ok."
Panting, he wiped his eyes again while remaining upright and putting most of his weight on his right leg, "Don't do that, it hurts, fuck."
Meanwhile, Michael Jackson was singing about freaking werewolves on the radio. If that wasn't a tropey signal, Hal didn't know what was.
"Shiiiiit," he hissed as he waddled as fast as he could to the car repair shop, "Shitshitshitshishit-"
He crashed into the glass door and tried the handle - not locked, thank fuck.
As soon as he made it inside, he shoved the door shut against the wheezing air brake and locked the door.
"Yeah, that'll stop a shitty werewolf, totally," Hal muttered, turning to face the darkened interior of the store. Near the back, the light near an emergency exit illuminated the counter, a few wall switches, and another door. Waddling through the darkness, past a couple islands loaded with items that he couldn't make out, he eventually reached the switches and flipped them all on.
"-and I don't care what you think, staying outside past midnight? No reason to do that! There is no business that you could possibly have at that time of night that can't wait until morning!" the Guy on the Radio - same guy as on the truck radio? - said, voice echoing into the empty store.
"Fuck, really?" the man complained, wiping his face again after the store lights flooded the whole building. By now he probably looked like a murder victim with the blood from that cut, but there was less and less blood, which was good - it needed to scab over, fast.
"And I gotta say, kids these days don't know how to play safe. All the time, I hear about kids coming home all scratched up. So make sure to keep a first aid kit around just in case! You never know when you might need it."
Hal looked around, and - there.
"Thank you, OSHA," he muttered, step-sliding over to the store counter where a banged up box with a red plus symbol sat up against the wall.
Grabbing the box, he dragged it across the counter to himself and opened it, yanking out some gauze and unrolling a liberal amount.
"Now, sometimes, people receive a higher calling. They don't get a choice in the matter- the world just comes knocking and they get swept up in it. When it knocks on your door, the only advice I can offer is to knuckle down and tough it out. I didn't tough it out, Hal Foley."
In the middle of wrapping a bandage around his own head, Hal froze.
"I tried to run from my calling, and now look at me! I'm just a Guy on the Radio. So when things get bad out there, don't be like the draft dodgers and skip town to Canada! Ol' Jimmy Carter won't be able to save your neck from that one! Haha!"
"Fffffu…" the man breathed out, slowly completing the tie of the bandage around the back of his head.
I hate this so much right now, he thought, absolutely beyond creeped out, but I am so turning this into a video game when I get back home.
"And another thing!" the Guy on the Radio said, the damned soul clearly forced to continue the role of a kitschy talk radio guy even as he was trying to be helpful, "Nobody drinks enough water! The government recommends at least six glasses a day - nobody I know comes even close to that. So when you're at work, make sure you set aside time to go grab some from a fountain or a cooler or a vending machine!"
As the radio kept echoing throughout the store, Hal kept listening and acting through the night.