"Depression"

So I've been over at Nichols' place again.

Yeah, he's still pissed about his Thundarr DVDs.

But he bought pizza for us anyways so we could eat and write.

Or he wrote.  I ate. And most importantly, dictated my story while he did the bitch work.

Then he got all pissy.  He stopped typing, bent down and rubbed his eyes.

"This is all too depressing," he moped.  "I can't take it."

"It's the truth," I yelled back, damn near spitting a pepperoni slice back at him.  "I can't change the truth of what the war was...or what it will be...or whatever."

So then he starts going on about how tough his life is.  He's having money troubles and doesn't know how to better his situation in life (like most liberals, he just doesn't work hard enough.)  He tells me about "this great weight" or something that depression is, then something about some broad named Sylvia Plath, and how he wishes he could reach into his wimpy wittle head and "rip the depression and anxiety cogs right out of the machine."

That's when I lost it.

I told him he needs that depression.  Yeah, that's right. We all do.  Depression helps us survive.  When we expect the absolute worst, we're either prepared and can defend ourselves or we're pleasantly surprised and get a rest...until the next crapstorm.  Depression is what gives you that "gravel in ya guts and that spit in ya eye" like the holy Man in Black once said.  In fact, I started having serious doubts as to whether or not Nichols could even write an accurate account of my story if he weren't depressed.

And so my mission orders became clear.

It was up to me to keep him depressed.  I needed to keep him just one reach away from the razor blades.  I needed to leave him drained of the energy to even scratch his own ass.  And lemme tell ya, folks...

Jake Timber's just the man to do that.

First off, I thought I'd build eez hopes up...just before I send 'em crashing to the ground.  That works every time for depression.  I told him I wanted to quit my idea of an unlimited series of Jake Timber books and just start out with one.  See how it goes.  This seemed to perk him up a bit, bushy up his tail and whatnot.

Then I came back about ten minutes later with an "I'm just fuckin' with ya, put the ball and chain back on, jackass."

Ha!  Shoulda seen eem.

I reminded him that Julius Peppers got traded to the Packers...meaning this year for the Packers is GONNA ROCK!  Then I went into details about all the dead animals I've found during my time, especially the ones I hunted and skinned myself.  That messed with his head.  Then I got hold of his credit card statements, his FICO scores, and the rejection letters from PhD programs (all 11 of them) and taped them up all around the computer while he was taking a dump (which I helped along by sneaking Ex-Lax into his chocolate brownie.  Dumbass.)

After that, I mighta taken it too far.  Just as soon as I got done taking a claw hammer to the side of his sucky Saturn in the garage ("Hey!  Got more car maintenance ya gotta pay for!  How ya like dem apples?") I came back into the house to give him a lecture about just how alone in the world he really is when I saw him...

He was hunched over the laptop, just staring off into space.  Not doing much more than that.  I put a hand in front of his face and felt little breaths.  Guess he was still alive, but geez...

Let this be a lesson from Jake Timber, boys and girls.  Depression is pain.  Pain is power.  When you stop feeling it, you can use it.  That's what I've done on the battlefield.

But when you're a putz like Nichols, a little bit can cause a cave in.

Gotta make a note to myself about that.

Top Ten "Bromances" and immigration "reform"

So I've been thinkin'...

I recently tried to secure our borders.

Yeah, yeah, how was I supposed to know it was the border between Illinois and Indiana?  My navigational systems got all fouled up, one thing led to another, and...anyway...

There's all these new laws I've found out about.  Laws that really put a crimp in protecting our borders if you know what I mean.  So I've had to formulate a new idea...

I ride a unicycle across the barren border while wearing a glow-in-the-dark mask of Nancy Pelosi, all while wailing "WAHHHHHHHHHH!"  I mean that's got to be speaking the universal language of terror, right?  That face comin' at you live in the pitch dark of the desert?  Would scare the hell out of me, tell you what boy.

What else?  Oh yeah...

While I'm against any kind of romantic funny business between men (read your Bible a little closer if you're still confused why), is it wrong to have a strong admiration for a guy?  To want to spend long hours with him, drinking beers or building log cabins together?  Or rolling around on the floor together, wrestling each other like a couple of platonic Vikings?  Yeah that's what I mean.  It's what the kids these days call a "bromance." Well here's a few guys that get Jake's stamp of approval:

1. Charlton Heston.  On here as tribute.  Still crying.
2. Christian Bale.  He, he falls into the "geek squad" camp a bit with Nichols, but that ain't Bale's fault.
3. Bear Grylls.  I'd go camping with him any day.  I mean that totally not in the gay way.
4. Joel Osteen.  Inspirational prayer, that winning smile...
5. Charlie Sheen.  He made Two and a Half Men, but he was also a Navy SEAL.
6. R. Lee Ermey.  The Gunney!
7. Brett Favre.  Come back to Green Bay.  Just one more season.
8. Jackie Chan.  Yeah, he's a foreigner.  But I want him right next to me in a close quarters fight any day.
9. That guy married to Scarlet Johansson.  Cozy up to him to get in the door so when things go wrong...Jake's there.
10. Don Rickles.  'Nuff said.

Teaching Nichols about the apocalypse

So I broke into Nichols' house again this morning.

Scared him so bad he spilt milk all himself.

See, the homo was sitting on the couch in his jammies and watching cartoons while eating a bowl of Cap'n Crunch.  I slapped him on the forehead for it but regretted it pretty damn fast.  He felt sticky.  I hated to ask why, but I did.

"It's marmalade," he said.

I sat myself down and started watching cartoons with him...except it wasn't any one I recognized.

"It's Thundarr the Barbarian," Nichols says.

The cartoon's about this guy (a cool and manly guy) who lives in a post-apocalyptic future.  Apparently, a runaway planet "hurtled between the Earth and the Moon, unleashing cosmic destruction."  This guy Thundarr travels the wasteland with Ookla the Mok (whatever he is) and Princess Ariel (who is a hottie!  For a cartoon, I mean.)  They fight wizards trying to rule over the scraps and rabble of humanity.

Man, it was like the story of my life.

Except the apocalypse wasn't no cartoon.  Neither is the war for the future.  I wondered if Nichols had this in mind.  So I asked him if this was his idea of a post-apocalyptic world.

"Pretty much," he said.

And this is the guy writing my books?  Hooo-boy.

Sos I ask him if he had any other ideas what the end of society might be like.

He shows me comic books.  Of course.

One's called Kamandi.  It's about a young kid (who still looks manlier than Nichols) surviving in an Earth that's suffered a catastrophic disaster.  People are reduced to savage barbarians but all the animals are intelligent and evolved.

Geez, it's PETA's wet dream.  Gimme a steak.

Then he shows me one about a guy called "Killraven."  He's muscular and manly (I'm noticing a trend here and I'm likin' it) guy in an Earth rendered a post-apocalyptic wasteland by a Martian invasion.  Yeah, very same Martians as in that book by Orson Welles.  Anyway, Killraven leads a band of human freedom fighters against the oppression of the Martians.

I like the sound of that, but I'm wondering something.  Does Nichols think the apocalypse is all fun and games like a cartoon or a comic book?

"What about a game like Gamma World?" he asks me.

I don't even know what the hell kinda geek shit that is so I don't respond.

Instead, I teach him a lesson.  If he's going to be prepared for the war of the future, he needs to know how to survive.  He needs to know how to adapt.  So I left his house.

But not after I took his Thundarr DVDs.  He'll have to follow the scavanger hunt clues to find them again.  I left notes in the crisper of his fridge (not a vegetable anywhere near there), at the bottom of his toilet bowl, one taped to the ceiling of his boss' office, and finally one in the hands of the Jesus statue in his college's grotto (where I paused to kneel and offer a prayer for Nichols' wimpy soul.)

It'll take him weeks to find it.  Hell, he could use a little fun.  And it'll be good for him too.

Mostly.

To protect our borders

Can we face it that our borders leak like a screen door on a  Los Angeles-class submarine?

We got illegals of all kinds crossing over from Mexico, bringing drugs, weapons, and God knows what else along with them.  As you'll eventually see from my books, this leaky border helps bring us down.  And by "us" I mean "U.S."  But as I've told you time and again, Jake Timber's here to stop all that.  These are my log entries from my trip to the border last week:

0120
I headed out to the border.  It was cold, fair amount of snow on the ground.  Didn't matter none.  Had my winter fatigues on.  Gortex-lined boots kept my feet all toasty warm.  Set my bivouac up with a campfire for my kettle.  Ate my soup straight out of a heated can.

0212
I called Nichols on my scrambled sat phone.  Figured I'd get that pansy-ass to take down my log entries for the night.  It'd make a good blog post and he could make himself useful for a change.  Anyway, he got all bitchy with me, saying that I woke him up at 2am.  So I ended up writing it all out myself.  I ask you, folks.  What's he good for?

0242
Saw my first car.  A Suburu Outback.  I held my hand up and the driver stopped.  He skidded a bit, made me wonder what was with his brakes, but it being a foreign car I should've known.  I asked for his ID papers.  He seemed real puzzled-like.  Then I think he saw my suppressed M4 slung across my front and he got the picture real fast.  The license said he lived nearby.  Looked normal enough so I let him go.

0311
All's quiet.  Too quiet.  I jumped back and forth across the border.  I was in one place, then another, then back, and then back again.  Just shows to go you how easy it is to do.  Take a moment.  Say a prayer to Our Lord for our country.

0337
Saw my second car.  A pickup truck.  A big one.  No matter.  I once stopped a fully-armored Humvee with a spoon.  Anyway, this driver?  Looked kinda...well...Mexican.  Got him out of the truck and I told him I had to search it.  I took everything apart.  I mean everything.  Even the engine.  Didn't find much.  He got kinda pissy with me when I confiscated his insulin, but I needed something for the effort.

0412
I farted.

0445
Saw my third car.  A minivan.  This guy had two kids asleep in the back, telling me he's on the way to day care and then work. A likely story, but you can never be too sure.  Illegals smuggle all kinds of crap under what looks like a completely innocent family.  Went through the van with a fine tooth comb (which if you've smelled the floor of any vehicle that transports small kids...well, it was rough.  All I can say about it.)  Couldn't find anything except for a McNugget that the dad said must've been "about two weeks old." I confiscated their bag of animal crackers...and the McNugget.  

0455
Cops!  They wouldn't understand.  They're in the pocket of the Obama administration.  I'm not getting my face and prints in the system so I bugged out.  I evaded the squad car and left the outskirts of Beaverville.

Oh yeah, it was the border between Indiana and Illinois.  Forgot to tell you that.

But that doesn't change nothing.  Any unsecured border is a threat to our national security, to American values, and maybe even honor itself.  If you saw how easy it was to cross between Indiana and Illinois then it just might wake your lazy, apathetic, un-patriotic ass up.

Maybe.

Jake on figure skating

Now what the fuck is all this?

That's the first thing I asked when figure skating came on the TV.

Let me back that up.  As I've been saying, been real cold around these parts.  It's not like I don't know how to survive it, but why do that when I can just climb into Nichols' house?  Famous last words.

I don't like watching TV and for the most part, neither does he.  But this year is an Olympic year and he's all about that it seems.  Me?  I can figure why half this junk is called "sports."  Hockey is, granted, granted (and man, I've seen old clips of the US beating the commies in hockey at Lake Placid.  I SO WISH I COULD HAVE BEEN THERE!)  Bobsled is kinda cool.  Part of me really wants to give the luge a try, but I sure as hell ain't wearing that suit.  Would cramp me up, know what I mean?  Skiing might not be bad.

But then there's figure skating.

Somebody want to tell me just WHAT in the Jeepers H. Johsephat on a popsicle stick that's all about?

I am by NO means a fan of that commie dictator Putin.  But I thought he didn't allow homosexuals into Russia?  Thought he rounded them all up and took them somewhere else so they don't start getting married and adopting children?  But what do I see?

These dancin' fruits come out on the ice in their sparkly clothes and start swishy sashaying around.

UGH!

First of all, if it was a real sport, they'd be wearing jerseys.  Want the definition of sports?  I got three words for ya: GREEN BAY PACKERS!

B) Their music sucks.  If you want to get a crowd into a performance, ditch that junk that you do "jazz hands" to and just for ONCE follow the will of the people (geez, it's like they're being coached by Obama.)  I'm talking somebody like Toby Keith, Travis Tritt, or Motley Crue.

3. You want to explain to me why in the pairs skates those men aren't feeling up those women?  They got ALL the chance in the world to.  Yeah, I think you know the answer.

But that's the plus side of that so-called "sport." Sure are a lot of fine looking hos on that ice.  All in skirts and shit.  They must be lonely for REAL men in that Olympic village.  Living in those cramped dorms.

I think maybe next time I'll go out for biathlon.

Jake for gold in 2018, fuckers.

URBAN COMBAT: An attack on our power grid?

Let ol' Jake tell you what happened while the rest of you kumquats was watching football.

No idea why you wasted your time on that blowout of a game, anyways.  Be a different story if it were the Packers playing those Seahawks (Jake, they are in the same conference. --Jonny)

So help me, Nichols, when I'm done with you, I'll spread what's left on a Ritz cracker and eat it.  Got me?

Anyways, I found this story that the lamestream liberal media isn't covering.

Sounds like people in San Jose, California might be in for a rough time.  A sniper rifle is being blamed for damage at power stations to transformers.  (No word yet as to if the wounded are Autobots or Decepticons. --Jonny)

THAT'S IT!  WE'RE GOING AT IT!

'Scuse me.  Where was I before I had to put the fear of death in pee-pants over here?  (Not in the face, Jake!  Not in the face! --Jonny)

Oh yeah.  Terrorism.

Supposably, the White House is getting secret briefings as to these attacks as they may represent a threat to the electrical grid of the nation as a whole.  That's what Breitbart is saying anyway.  What?  There's a terrorist threat they're not telling us about?  You mean those same people who did all that covering up after those Navy SEALS lost their lives in an attack on Benghazi?  Nahhhh....course not.

All along the defense planners have feared an EMP attack on the power grid, either by portable generator or high atmospheric nuclear detonation.  Now, with our Southern borders leaking like flippin' sieve, any terrorist can sneak through with a sniper rifle and take the machinery apart with potshots.  I swear, this administration is just a bunch of Marys.

Then again, it could all be staged event.  What we in soldiering call a "false flag" attack.  That's what happened to us in the future...as you'll see when my books come out. (WHEN exactly is that going to be, Jake? --Jonny)  It's all a fake put on by the "powers that be" who want to rule our nation by decree.  As soon as the sheep are good and panicked, they declare martial law.

Well my friends, you need to do two things.  First, get your asses to church and pray for God's mercy and guidance in what's about to come.  Second, get yourself prepared for urban combat.  I'm talking chewing dirt while fighting house-to-house in a city's cement-scape.  You can turn any building into a fortified compound.  Punji sticks.  Burmese tiger traps.  Things like that really play hell with the enemy's moral.

Keep your woman in the kitchen.  She'll need to provide covering fire.  You'll aside need snipers high atop concealed locations.  Your personal carry weapon?  I'd go with a shotgun.  Great for close quarters fighting.

I suggest you get old issues of G.I. Joe written by Larry Hama and start studying.

Now I gots to get to sleep.

Jake at the movies: World War Z

So last summer, Nichols and Sell took me to see World War Z.

Here's me in the theater as shown by an action figure (as you know, I am NOT showing my real self on here):

Couple of nice guys, those jackasses.  They even got me Twizzlers.

Anyway, on with the movie.

I ain't no Siskel and I sure as hell ain't no Ebert (LIBERAL!) but here's what I thought about it.

First off, there ain't gonna be no "zombie outbreak." I'm from the future and I'm here to tell you it just doesn't happen.  That is unless you count all the mindless sheep who said, "Oh yeah.  Martial law is cool.  I don't care."  In fact, there's this part where Brad Pitt's daughter asks, "Daddy, what's martial law?" Believe me, every MAN, WOMAN, and CHILD should be asking that question right about now.  Funny.  The movie sort of starts out that way and that was (one of the few) things I liked about it.  They show channel flipping between talk shows and reality TV and nobody seems to catch the news bits about a viral outbreak.  You know, REAL news that might affect you?  Throbknobs.

So anyway, the zombie outbreak hits and must of these schmucks are completely unprepared.  That's what REALLY scares me.  But that Brad Pitt guy ain't bad.  Talk about situational awareness, as the first zombie attack happened, he keyed in on one important aspect of zombie behavior while everybody else was panicking and losing their heads.  Trust me.  You GOTTA be able to do that in a real fight.  Yeah, Brad Pitt's all right.  I'll be watching him.

Moving along, Brad Pitt comes across an RV.  Somehow, all the panicking people must have missed it conveniently placed in the street for anyone to take.  But Pitt knew right what to do.  WAKE THE FUCK UP PEOPLE!  This Brad Pitt guy knows what he's doing!

Then his kid has an asthma attack.  I'll cut him a little slack for not being prepared with extra medicine (ALWAYS have that in your bug-out bag!) as he was just on a family outing at first.  Then again, it hits the fan when you least expect it so never get caught unprepared.  Speaking of prepared, there was one part of the movie that made stand up and yell "What the fuck?" at the screen.  Yeah, that wimp Nichols didn't like that too much, scared we were gonna get kicked out.  Like some pencil-neck teenage movie usher is gonna take down JAKE TIMBER?  Right.

Anyway, these guys in the movie go to a grocery store.  This store carries motor oil.  I have NEVER seen a grocery store carry that (especially not next to the milk) so do NOT count on getting your car's oil there after the end of society.

They make it to a command ship at sea.  A UN rep starts to get rationed water to them.  Now if THAT ain't symbolic of the Big Government that is to come, I don't know what the fuck is.

Brad Pitt goes off on his own mission to stop this apocalypse-in-progress.  In the course of things, one of his team (a doctor I think) runs up the metal ramp of a C-130.  The ramp is wet with rain.  He trips and blows his own head off with the nine he's carrying.  Important lesson folks.  Keep your finger on the TRIGGER GUARD AND NOT THE TRIGGER!  Geez.  Also watch your noise discipline (turn your fucking cell phone off!) and flagging your damn weapon.

How did Israel build that fucking wall so fast?  Wait, they probably got the plans already from Gaza.  That's cool.  Plus, Israel is special to God so He probably helped them out with the 411 on the zombie front.  Makes sense.

How did that zombie get on the plane?

I just do NOT trust the UN!

So Brad Pitt's got to make his way through this UN medical facility and they don't have no phone or radio they can send with him?  Jagoffs.  He needed to demand communication.  If you ain't got commo, you might as well not have eyes.

The movie's good and bad.  A few great shots of bodies getting blown apart but you don't see any tits.

Jake bakes a cake

Like I been sayin', it's been cold.

So I went over to Nichols' house.  I feel like he owed to me.  And when I get there what do I find?  The key he gave me won't work. The lock must've been frozen or something.  No problem.  Part of combat is you learn to ADAPT.

I took my kabar and pried open the bedroom window.  It kinda messed up the storm window (This is Jon. It's shattered, Jake.  Shattered.)  but no real harm, no real foul, amIright?  Anyway, I made my way into the kitchen.  First order of business is ALWAYS survival.  So what does this guy keep around for chow?  A box of Cap'n Crunch, a box of Fruit Loops, and a jar of mustard.  Oh yeah, a can of Pam spray and a tin of Crisco (I just do not want to know what he uses that for.)  In the fridge was a bottle of milk that might still be good.  The freezer held a bag of Tater Tots the length of my manhood.

That's it.

This guy is NOT ready to survive.  But did you really expect anything else?

A little poking around later and I found a cake mix.  Devil's food.  Seemed like the only thing of real substance.  Only Nichols had no eggs and I just wasn't taking a chance on that milk.  The LAST thing you need in either urban or wilderness survival is food poisoning.  Not that I'm paranoid or nothin'.

So I mixed up the batter using just Crisco and Pam.  Stuck it in the oven to bake.  Only I didn't want to wait the whole half hour that the box instructed (NO ONE tells Jake Timber what to do!) so I cranked up the oven to right round 450 degrees.  Then I sat down to watch TV.

It was all mainstream media BS about the State of the Union address.  Presidential initiatives and other hot air.  Here's my proposed initiative: I'll challenge President Obama to a one-on-one game of basketball.  If I win, then he has to 1) cut his salary in half, donating the other half towards paying down the National Debt and 2) adopt at least ONE Republican initiative whether the Democrats want it or not.  Sounds FAIR, right?  If he wins, then I'll...oh come on.  He's NOT beating Jake Timber.  No one is.

Then there were a whole mess of ads about the Super Bowl.  Like I fucking care.  My Green Bay Packers aren't in it.  That's just another sign of the Obama conspiracy right there.

Wait.  Then I smelled it.  Smoke.  Where there's smoke, there's fire.  I learned that in the Battle of Milwaukee.

I checked the oven and yeah, there was a little fire going on. Looked like it might've done something to the gas line, too.  So I call Nichols on my scrambled sat phone and he treats me like I've committed a crime or something.  The wuss.  Got the fire department involved.  The cops too, but I was long gone at that point.

Their not taking Jake Timber alive.

No one is.


Follow me on Twitter @JakeTimber3

Meet Jake pt. 3

Hey everybody!  Jake Timber here rappin' at ya.

So where was I?  Got a little drunk last night and I'm not really sure where I was going with this.

Oh yeah.  Me.  Nichols.  McDonald's.  Him totally DISSING the McRib.  Which just ain't American.  Anyway...

I'm trying to tell him about the coming storm.  Trying to let people know how to STOP this fight before it ever even happens.  I mean, let's MAKE THINGS HAPPEN!  Er, not happen.  Anyway, I got my whole story to tell and I know how I want to tell it.  Got the names changed to protect the guilty and everything.  Soon, people could read all about me and my friends Sassy McCoy, Duke Goldhammer, and Stanley Conquergood. 

"Best part is," I tells him, "Not only do we stop a tyrannical future U.S., we give people a kick ass series of action books.  Lot of sex in there too, because...well, it's me.  Perfect cocktail for sales."

He tells me he's not interested.  I figured.  So I slide a stack of hundred dollar bills over to him.  He still turns me down.  Heh.  "Joe College." I slide over another stack of hundreds.  He seems to think about it a little more, but still says "no."  Time to go for my trump card.

I reach into my rucksack and bring out the big guns.  It's a collected box set of Star Trek, the Original Series.  The jackass looked like he wet himself (geez, I don't know for sure, I wasn't going to freakin' check, ya know?) 

That got him.  Not only that, but he was giddy-like-a-little-damn-girl over the box set, he didn't even balk when I told him to manage all my social media promotions (I mean, I am NOT getting my digital self out there for the NSA to find.)  He just said "yeah yeah" while squealing "it's got 'Spock's Brain!'"

He said he wanted to do a "preliminary interview." Get to know "who he's writing about." Fine.  So I show the asshat where I live.  He's not impressed at first, until I show him my ingenious home brew system.  Yeah, beer's a little scarce where I come from so you learn to make do.  ADAPT.  How many times do I gotta tell you people?

Anyway, what else did I tell him?  I'm a devout member of the 700 Club and I'm hoping to get Pat Robertston to make another presidential run.  THAT might be all it takes to stop this thing!  But then I wouldn't get my books out there.  Tough choice.  What else?  Oh yeah.  I'm a big Green Bay Packers fan, which gave Nichols the shits.  Kinda saw it coming in my research of the guy, him following those losers the Bears and all.  Also, I told him I could pinpoint almost the exact moment that things started to turn for the worst with our great nation.

Obama's election?  Bad.  But it got worse.

I'm talking about when Charlie Sheen left Two and a Half Men.  That's when we REALLY started to turn away from Jesus.

Sad.

Then it got cold.  Like arctic cold.  But as I said last time, I knew how to handle it in my hut but why make more work for myself?  "I'll just go stay with the writer!" I says.  That's a story for next time.

Actually, I'm at his house right now, riding out this "polar vortex" or whatever malarkey their calling it to boost their "global warming" agenda.  It's not so bad.  I'm going over my story with him, breaking it down into separate books.  Seems like each little bit of my life makes me think "that's another book to add!" The series just keeps growing, folks!  He always seems to get more depressed at that.

Jackass.


Follow me on Twitter @JakeTimber3

Meet Jake, cont.

Damn it's cold.

A little too cold to be out in my hut, y'know?
I mean it's nothing I couldn't handle.  The trick is to get inside your bunk just as the sun goes down and keep heated stones on each of your pulse points.  You should be warm the whole night through (but only if you start at the beginning of the night, otherwise you'll never build up enough body heat.)

So why freeze my ass off when I can stay at my writer's house?

That's a story for another time.  First, I gots to finish the one I already started.  Sheesh, this writing stuff is hard.

Anyways, I asked to meet Nichols at McDonald's.  Not only was it close by, but I could feast on a delicacy long since gone in my time: the McRib.  See, that "nanny state" guvmint, started by Michelle Obama and her "health food" kick, has made the glorious McRib illegal in the future.  Hell, you can barely eat red meat.  So this was HUGE, man...I bought like bought like three or four of those babies and inhaled them like the sweet nectar of the gods they are.

Then Nichols walks in.

He's just like I imagined and told you about before.  Bookish.  Skinny and fat in all the wrong places.  Hesitant, gawky, looks a little to like that guy who fronted Talking Heads?  I dunno, they all look the same to me.  Anyways, he sits down after I yell over to him.  Guy ordered salad and coffee at McDonald's?  When he could have the McRib?  Shows you how little he values America.  This sammich is a gift from God and he passes it up.  Me?  I'm droolin' like Pee Wee Herman in a porno theater.

Sos I tell him about my situation.  I'm a soldier.  I'm from the future.  I'm here to stop a war before it starts.  To do that, I need to tell my story.  Because, y'know, I'm not good with words and all that shit.

What's he do?  Nichols starts jabbing at me about time travel.  Wanting to know how I did it.  "Was it a TARDIS or a DeLorean?" and all that geek shit.  Between his attitude and his dissing of the McRib, I'd had just about enough.  I pulled my kabar and got the point in the sweet spot underneath his chin.  He quieted down real quick after that.  Back to business then.

I go into the future I'm trying to fight.  Trying to describe to him how awful it is (even though being without the McRib SHOULD be enough to convince anybody decent.)  I tell him about an America ruled by a dictatorship that threw our Constitution in the shitter.  I tell him about a society of surveillance cameras, facial recognition software, and x-ray machines at every turn.  Big Brother and Big Guvmint all in one.

What's he do?  He doubts me.  He DOUBTS me.  Me, JAKE TIMBER?

So I gots to explain to this liberal college egghead that he already lives in a country where 50% of the citizens feel entitled to everything for free and the NSA spies on 100% of everyone.  SEE MY POINT?

I'll tell you more later.  I'm sick of writing.
Maybe I've still got another McRib in his freezer.

My name is Jake Timber

Hey.
Name's Jake Timber.

But won't lie to you.  I'll leave that to the Democrats.
I go by "Jake Timber" but that's not my name.  My real one?  You ain't getting it.

I'm a man of action.  A soldier from the future.  About fifteen years or so from now.  Yeah yeah, screw you.  I'm not going to tell you how I traveled through time.  Keeping that one close to the vest, you know what I mean?  So save the henpecking questions.  Anyway, I'm here to stop a lot of bad things from happening.  My time as a soldier has taught me that the best way to fight a war is to stop it before it can start.

In my future, the future I want to prevent, the United States of America is in a bad way.  I mean real bad.  We're a basically a dictatorship, set up to supposably "protect us" from "terrorism." Yeah.  That's great.  If you want your every email read, your phone calls listened to, and cameras watching your every move.

Think it can't happen?  Ha.  You're funny.  Pretty damn naive too.  Over in Camden, UK, the town tried installing cameras in a community park that would photograph anyone in the public space.  Who knows what kind of charges they could trump up against you?  Then we got the good ol' NSA.   If Verizon is your carrier, the NSA has recorded every phone call you've ever made.  They know who you called, when you called, how long you talked, the whole schmeer.  And do you really think they'd stop with one cell carrier.  Probably have a whole file on how you live.

"Live." That's a good one.  Most of the regular Americans I know live in slums.  It's like we're cattle kept around to buy cheap products made in someone else's country to make someone else rich.  That ain't America.  Not to me, anyways.  So I fought back.  Built an underground HQ, gathered an army of true Americans, and gave 'em hell.

But you'll hear all about that later.  Like I said, the best way I could think of to stop the future, is to go back and tell everybody about what's coming if we don't act.  So I look through the news reports of the past and what do I find?  There's no real leadership for Americans.  Oh they had a president.  But he was a guy that probably had sex dreams about what he was going to do to the Constitution.  Like I said, no leadership.  Except maybe for Bill O'Reilly and Sarah Palin.  I knew then that if we're going to avoid this life of hurt, dictatorship, and socialized healthcare that I've personally seen, people needed to get energized.  That's why I've written a series of books about the wars I've fought.  Well it's my story only it ain't me doing the writing.  English has never been my thing, so I needed a writer, someone to...y'know, put the words together and shit.

So get this.  I dig around and find out that there's a guy who back in 2013 tried to use the name "Jake Timber" as his name for a book.  Said so on his Facebook page.  He's a wuss named Jon Nichols (apparently he becomes some kinda big writer in the future.  Only God knows why.)  You know the type.  Eats sushi, drinks lattes, voted for Obama, reads books, and damn is he ugly.  I knew right then he was my guy.  Easy to push around, y'know?  I just needed to get to Indiana in 2013.

So when I got there, I set up shop in countryside, about five miles outside of town he lives in.  Wasn't hard.  I'm an expert survivalist.  My new home away from home looked sorta like this:

Anyone who's a good prepper could do it.  And if you can't?  Shame on you.  You're not ready for what's coming next, I guarantee.  Yeah, yeah, there's no TV and that's kinda the point.  The guvmint is rotting your brain ON PURPOSE to make you dumber and easier to control.  Damn, buncha sheep.

So I staked out Nichols' house and then climbed into the trunk of his car.  I sat in there eating a sandwich (roast beef with mayo) until the car parked and I knew he was gone.  I got out and found myself on a college campus.  You know, where they never give you any real life skills, just read books?  I left a note on his windshield, asking him to meet me at McDonald's.

You'll find out how that went next time...


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