A Dagger through Dimensions Chapter 2

Screwy Year

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Getting outside of the building didn’t change anything. When I exited through a glass and wood front door, I’m in the middle of even more weird shit. The street in front of me is the first thing I see, along with cars and trucks out past the sidewalk. Sounds pretty much normal until you notice that every car and truck is a damn antique. I mean freaking big cars that have really rounded fenders and lots of chrome shining in the sunlight. I walked up to the curb and actually touched the blue car just to make sure it was not an illusion. The trunk emblem says it’s a Nash! Seriously, who ever heard of that name for a car?

Then, I’m getting really odd looks from the people walking by me. Sure, I get it when they see a guy hunched down while stabbing his finger into the side of a car. That’s pretty bizarre. Then, I stare at a couple passing by on the sidewalk. My first thought is they are going to church or some place special. She’s wearing a dress with a wild looking partial hat stuck in her hair. The guy’s got on a suit and sporting a hat like my great grandpa used to wear. Scanning around the area, I see two men dressed in suits across the street and they’re carrying leather briefcases.

That’s when I figured out that my blue jeans with a bright yellow tee shirt under my winter jacket make me look like a damn idiot. Also, I finally noticed how damn hot the temperature is outside and I’m sweating bullets. Unzipping my jacket, I retreated back into the building.

“I need to calm down and think this out,” I mumble to myself, and I push through the doors.

Retracing my path back to the office while I’m taking off my stifling coat, I stopped in front of the office door. I didn’t close the door when I left but there now it’s shut and I’m looking at the name of Lane Dagger on the door. Even weirder are the smaller letters underneath which spell out Private Investigator.

At that point, I started laughing, but not the cheerful sound of enjoyment. No, the sound came out like a strange cross of madness and desperation. Then, I threw up all over the door.

I don’t remember how long I stood there after the cry finished. Eventually, I smelled the foul stench of beer mixed with gastric acid, which brought me back to the reality of my plight. I opened the door, nearly falling inside while trying to avoid the stinking mess on the floor.

Fortunately, the typewriter was quiet as I went straight into the next room. I closed the door using my back, then slid down to the floor. I even touched the surrounding surfaces just to make sure nothing I saw might be an illusion.

I’m either insane, or that bitch has fucked me!

“Probably both,” I cackled out the words aloud while trying to hold back the desperation filling me. I remembered reading something about panic making the situation worse.

After a moment, my brain rationalizes. Yes, this whole thing is some damn crazy hallucination that’s so real that I’m unable to wake from it. Then, I wonder if I’m going through some damn CIA experiment like they did in the 60s.

“Sure, it makes sense since I’m sure that I’m a government drone,” I sarcastically told the silent office.

Then another thought comes through, reminding me I’m not a guy named Lane Dagger. Yeah, there’s no way that I’m this person, much less a private detective.

Still, it hurt my pride when I realized all the rationalization came down to one thing.

This new place scares me. Everything is different and unfamiliar. 

That’s when I was glad that I didn’t say out loud the hundreds of things running through my mind.

Sebastian Kennicott doesn’t like different!

Man, I hated how I sounded like a coward. My face frowns at that realization.  

“But you are not Sebastian Kennicott here,” my voice suddenly spilled out as I came to another possibility.

“Since it’s possible that I’m making this up in my head, why not go with the flow?” I kept talking to myself as I searched for hope. “Or it’s like those tropes I’ve seen in anime, that reincarnation stuff.”

Now, I’m normally quiet, so talking to the empty room felt really unnatural at the moment.

“I’m nuts, a complete ratchet, so maybe I will figure out how to leave. If I drive far enough, I’ll wake up.” 

Not likely.

“But what are you afraid of?” my voice grumbled aloud. “If that bitch killed me, I’ve gone through the worst of it.”

Again, not likely!

After shaking my head, I crawled to my feet. While I still hoped that I’d wake up in my comfortable bed eventually, those prospects appeared to be drifting away from me.

“Damn, I hate this crap!”

The chair squeaked in protest when I sat down behind a shabby wood desk. A couch with a pillow and a blanket tucked at one side sat on the other side of the room. Near the end of the couch stood a coat rack next to the door. I noticed clothing hanging underneath a couple of hats.

“Mr. Dagger, what am I supposed to do about the vomit outside the office?”

The sexy voice filling the room made me jump. I swiveled around to see a small wood box with a speaker hole sitting on the desk.

There’s a voice?

 Seeing a switch under the speaker and I flipped it. For a moment, I didn’t know what to say. My brain seized up like a rusty nut.

“I’m sorry. Is there a janitor in the building?” I finally stammered. Now, I’m feeling pretty bad for the person but I’m happy to give the job to someone else. After a long pause, I hear from the invisible woman again.

“Yes, I’ll have Carl take care of it,” her voice left me with the impression that I just dropped to zero in the respect department.

Good ol’ Carl isn’t going to be my friend, I thought.

Look, what do I care? I reminded myself. They’re just characters. I’ll bet they reset like a dungeon game when I get out of this place. I decided I would play along with this game. Sure, it might be a trope, but my sanity required something I could hold on to at the moment. I shrugged after deciding to change clothes.

When in Rome...

First, I checked out the clothing hanging by the door. Somehow, I expected the stuff was probably unwashed, and that caused me to scowl. I pulled off a long-sleeved white shirt and sniffed it as I wondered who wears long sleeves in summer. I could only smell a soupy scent and smiled. The shirt went on after pulling off my tee-shirt. I noticed the sleeves were a bit short for my arms, but I didn’t care at this point. However, I wasn’t happy about the ugly blue pinstripe pants. Made of wool, the pants hung sloppily around my waist.

Crap!

I looked over to find suspenders, figured out how to use them, and the damn pants finally hung around my belly. As I thought that was a stupid way to dress, I tucked in my shirt and found keys on a keyring in the pocket with some change. After sliding on my suit coat, I noticed a wallet in the chest pocket.

“Ok, this might help me,” I sighed.

Inside, I found a driver’s license which showed the address of 15 Maiden Lane along with the town’s name.

Stull Junction?

Shrugging, I went back to my small inventory of items, which included twelve dollars that showed a banner stating silver certificate on the top. I also found a couple of telephone numbers scribbled on pieces of torn paper, and another card showing registration for a concealed weapon.

That’s right, I’m a detective. It said so on the door. Then, shaking my head, I reconsidered my place in this screwed up town. Obviously, it’s not a video game cliché that I fell into. I don’t see any status screens and certainly I can’t tell the HP/MP points of those people that I see. Flicking one dime I held into the air, it went up about a foot before landing on the desk.

No superhuman strength, I decided.

That fact bummed me out a bit as I went through a thin wooden box with a stenciled IN on the side. The inbox contained open mail, mostly letters from companies that I had never heard of. A glance showed me they wanted money from this guy Lane for things. One letter marked important came from a lawyer, but I didn’t care to look at it further.

Proceeding to the middle drawer, I found a little black book, along with another set of keys on a key ring, and junk that meant nothing to me. On the left side of the desk, I discovered a Colt Model 11 .45 caliber automatic rested comfortably between a couple of boxes of cartridges. How did I know the type of gun? Well, I grew up in a rural town where almost everyone had at least one gun in the house. In high school, my friends and I used to go down to the river and shoot at targets with all types of weapons. It was kind of second nature to know about such things before I went off to college.

A typical small-town boy with an attitude!

On the right side of the desk, I found a pack of cigarettes and a silver flask with the initials of LD from AD engraved on the body. I opened the top and grimaced at the smell of whiskey inside.

No thanks, I thought.

Even on a good day, I hate whiskey from the memories of a hangover that nearly matched the one this morning. I pulled out a few of the letters in the drawer as well. The return addresses had female names, and I noticed the perfume smell coming off some of them.

“Fuck, I guess this guy Lane does alright,” I told the quiet office.

No way in hell that any of my two girlfriends would send me a perfumed letter, even when we dated.

Still, the smell was nice, and it was the first bit of good news I had since I arrived.

 So what if it’s a freaking trope private detective?

Scanning the office as I put the wallet and black book into my suit coat, I spotted a small oval mirror on the wall. I went over, expecting the worst. What I found surprised me.

The image staring back was me or a damn excellent copy. I still had my brown hair and green eyes. Even the slight trace of his scar on the chin from the football injury remained. I backed away, looking at my clothing, thinking I could wonder in the city now. Then, I noticed I was missing something.

Yeah, everybody’s wearing hats.

I grabbed the gray one from the rack and put it on. It seemed to fit. Another peek in the mirror before I looked down at my sock covered feet and sighed. Searching the floor, I found a pair of leather shoes near the desk. I ran one foot up against the side of a shoe and frowned.

That’s not going to work. How can a guy have such small feet?

Going back to my casual shoes, I sighed and thanked my unintentional foresight in wearing black shoes. Leaning over while using the wall as a brace with one hand, I slid my shoes on. My hand against the wall bumped into a calendar on the wall, which had a pin-up illustration above the calendar.

“Well, you’d certainly get me by for a while,” I told a seductive raven-haired beauty who held a towel over her partially nude body as she smiled at me.

Then, I saw the year.

1940!