Three Ways to Friday

There were three ways to Friday, and none of them were easy.

Not to add undue emphasis to the previous statement, but none of the solutions were even doable, okay, at least from a historic vantage point. They had been contemplated before. They had been attempted. But, success? Not at this juncture…

Way one to Friday: cross the moat. It is an old fashioned method, to be sure, but very effective nonetheless.

In a high-tech world, the enemy would often appear in a low-tech context. Superb and strong, they would fight much like the ancient kings, a sword in front, a laser in back, wearing a wide devil-may-care grin. Their bravado always had the potential to carry them over the top.

“Benjy, are you getting ready for bed?”

Benjy. She had called him Benjy. How little she knew of his true nature. Agent Friday shelved the heartache. It was best left this way.

Way two to Friday: successful landing on the castle helipad. This would be truly daring considering how well fortified the castle top was, and the sophistication of the missile defense currently deployed here in West Goodland. Suicidal.

“Benjy! Lights out in five minutes. It’s your bedtime.

Way three to Friday: teleportation. This one worried him. Frankly, Friday did not understand teleportation, and it was in his nature to distrust what he didn’t understand.

It was times such as these that Friday felt the burden of his young age, and he would worry that perhaps he did not possess sufficient skill and cunning to provide the sort of leadership West Goodland so desperately needed at this historic juncture. Ah, screw it. If the miserable citizens were not supportive of his labors, let them rise up and seize control of their own godforsaken planet.

Bedtime my ass, muttered Agent Friday, as he called up his trusty companion Jocko on the telesponder. Jocko was not your ordinary super intelligent costume wearing Chimpanzee spacer ranger, oh no, he was also Agent Friday’s closest friend. Jocko was better than people at keeping secrets, and better than monkeys at shooting a gun.

Teleportation. That possibility was weighing heavily on Friday. He just couldn't understand the concept.

His mother ripped a seam in the space-time continuum, and thrust open a door where there was no door. She aimed her sonic reducer at his neck where the skin showed pink, effectively ending his mission and his life.

Game over. Set. Done.

There were four ways to Friday…

© 2003, Mark Hoback