A violent, wrenching heave convulsed through Michael's body. He dropped to his knees, the meager contents of his greasy lunch—the precious pork slices he'd forced down hours ago—spewing onto the dusty ground. A profound sense of waste, of cosmic unfairness, washed over him. What a bloody waste.
The transition through the portal had been nothing like the gentle, unconscious drift of the previous night. This time, he'd been wide awake. The swirling emerald vortex had erupted with a light so searingly intense it felt like needles being driven into his retinas. Simultaneously, a profound spatial vertigo gripped him, a sensation of his insides being spun, stretched, and twisted. His sense of balance, of being, had been completely upended. The ordeal, mercifully, lasted only a handful of seconds, ending with the solid, unyielding feel of packed earth beneath his shoes. But the nausea lingered, demanding its due.
As he retched, a part of his brain, detached and analytical, noted the key difference: last time, he'd likely been too drunk or already emptied to vomit. Now, with a stomach full of cheap stir-fry, his body rebelled spectacularly.
It took several minutes for the world to stop lurching. Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, Michael finally took stock of his surroundings. He was not in the open field near the tavern, but inside a small, low-ceilinged cave. Fierce, unfiltered sunlight streamed in from the entrance, painting the rough walls a blinding yellow-white. The portal behind him was gone, having shimmered and faded from existence about two minutes after his arrival. This detail he'd noted even in his distress. He wasn't overly concerned. Its disappearance last time hadn't stranded him; it would likely reappear, or he'd find a way to summon it. Research could come later. His priorities, currently throbbing in his skull and stirring lower down, were far more immediate: the tavern, the bed, and securing something valuable from this brave new world.
First, an inventory. His fortunes, he knew, hinged on what he'd brought. He set the ten-pack of toilet paper rolls carefully on the ground. The sheer bulk of it, 150 squares per roll, filled him with a giddy, irrational confidence. It was like winning the lottery. This was his capital.
Next, his satchel. He unzipped it, the sound loud in the quiet cave. He pulled out the contents one by one, assessing each item with a salesman's eye for potential value.
The new Pest and Disease Control Manual?Useless. Garbage. In this world, it wouldn't even make decent toilet paper—the pages were too glossy.
The freshly signed contract and delivery list?Vital. These needed to be kept safe. A tangible link to his old, mundane life.
Several small bottles of pesticide and sample packets of foliar fertilizer?An unknown variable. Did this world have agriculture? Did it need these? A question for later.
Finally, the unopened boxes of anti-inflammatory and painkillers.His eyes gleamed. This was it.Like the toilet paper, these were products of a sophisticated, consolidated industrial base. Where there was pain, there was a market. These could be worth a fortune.
He also noted a crumpled black plastic bag, likely stuffed in there after a delivery trip and forgotten. It seemed utterly insignificant.
Slinging the repacked satchel over his shoulder and balancing the pack of toilet paper on his head like a bizarre crown, Michael emerged from the cave's mouth. The assault was immediate and brutal. The sun wasn't just bright; it was a physical weight, a hammer of heat that drove the air from his lungs. He squinted, eyes watering. Last night's visit had hidden the true nature of this place. Now, in the full glare of day, he understood. This wasn't just hot; it was a scorching, desiccating oven that made his southern Chinese hometown seem temperate by comparison. The air shimmered over the ground, and the heat radiating from the yellow-brown earth seemed to sear the soles of his shoes through the thin leather. Forty-five degrees? Fifty?he wondered, feeling the skin on his arms begin to prickle and redden.
Shielding his eyes, he surveyed the landscape. Barren. A vast expanse of ochre and tan, broken only by the occasional cluster of thorny, desperate-looking shrubs. Towering cacti, some as high as a single-story building, stood like silent, grotesque sentinels. No trees, no hint of water, no sign of large animals. Just emptiness, baked under a merciless sky.
Then he saw it, to the east. A smudge of habitation. A settlement, perhaps three miles distant, surrounded by a rough-hewn wall. Within it, a jumble of low, haphazard structures crowded together. And among them, unmistakable, was a three-story building. The tavern.
His heart leapt, then immediately clenched with fear. The throbbing lump on his head was a stark reminder: this place was not safe. It was not neutral territory. Walking in there with his treasure was like painting a target on his back. I'd be the first bloke in history to get murdered for a pack of bog roll,he thought with a hysterical edge. What a legacy.
Modern caution urged him to retreat, to go back, prepare better. He waited in the relative shade of the cave mouth for nearly two hours, watching the spot where the portal had been. It remained stubbornly empty. Meanwhile, his emptied stomach began to cramp and gurgle, a sharp, insistent hunger joining the chorus of his discomfort. This physical need, primal and demanding, tipped the scales. Starvation was a certainty if he stayed. Adventure, however dangerous, at least offered a chance.
In for a penny, in for a pound,he thought, the gambler's resolve hardening. He adjusted the satchel strap, repositioned his cardboard crown, and set off towards the distant wall, the image of a certain rabbit-eared waitress and a large bed fueling his steps. A new plan formed: perhaps he could hirethose minotaur bouncers as bodyguards. A whole roll of toilet paper as payment should secure their loyal services… or at least their temporary compliance. Relying on the professional ethics of mythical creatures was absurd, but options were a luxury he didn't possess.
The trek was an hour of pure misery. The ground radiated heat like a griddle; he could feel it through his shoe soles, suspecting they were beginning to soften. Sweat poured from him, soaking his clothes instantly. Yet he didn't dare remove his footwear. The scorching earth was one concern; the scuttling, many-legged inhabitants of the gravel were another. Large, armored scorpions and swift, darting lizards were frequent, unnerving companions. A bite from one of those "lovelies," as he grimly thought of them, could be fatal.
Finally, he reached the outskirts. The "wall" of Cinder Town was a ramshackle, pathetic thing up close—a haphazard barrier constructed from the rusted carcasses of automobiles, jagged chunks of concrete, rough-hewn timber, and piled stones. Yet, for all its ugliness, it was effective. A good five meters high in most places, it presented a formidable obstacle. The only entrance was a gap guarded by a makeshift checkpoint manned by seven or eight shirtless figures.
When he was still fifty meters out, a voice like grinding gravel boomed across the distance. "Halt! Hands where we can see 'em! Slow and easy! State your business in Cinder Town!"
Now he could see them clearly. Among the guards were a sunburned white man and a couple of Africans, but the rest… they were the stuff of fantasy. A man with the distinct striped markings and powerful build of a tiger, another with curled ram's horns, one with coarse, boar-like bristles covering his shoulders. Their weapons were a motley assortment: crudely fashioned bows, notched blades, clubs studded with nails. Only the leader, the tiger-striped man, boasted a firearm—a battered, sawed-off shotgun that looked like it had been cobbled together from scrap metal, shoved into his belt. The presence of guns didn't surprise Michael. This world had car husks; of course it had firearms.
Any last shred of belief that this was an elaborate role-playing game evaporated. This was a new reality, a world where humans and… others… coexisted. The 'why' of it was irrelevant. A single, blazing thought eclipsed all else: First, survive. Then, for strictly anthropological and ergonomic research purposes, I must determine if Jaunysmoke is a genuine, biological specimen or merely a woman in a costume. The scientific implications are profound.
The very idea sent a jolt of terrified excitement through him.
Squaring his shoulders, he held the pack of toilet paper aloft, waving it like a banner. "Open your eyes, you sods!" he shouted, forcing a bravado he didn't feel into his voice. Life had taught him that in dangerous situations, timidity was an invitation. "I'm a paying customer! A wealthy patron! Now step aside and don't spoil my mood. I've business at the tavern, and it's a thirsty kind of business!"
The effect was instantaneous. Weapons were lowered. The tiger-striped leader's eyes, sharp and yellow, fixed on the pristine package in Michael's hand. A flicker of naked, calculating greed passed through them, so fast Michael almost missed it. Then it was gone, replaced by an expression of fawning servility so familiar it was almost comforting.
"Ah! The gentleman from last night! The generous boss from the Honey and Maiden!" the man boomed, his voice now all oily warmth. "Please, come in, come in! Welcome to Cinder Town!"
A wave of relief washed over Michael. The bluff had worked. He was even considering tearing off a few squares as a tip, a display of casual wealth to solidify his status. But as the guard captain moved closer to usher him in, a wall of odor hit Michael with near-physical force.
It was a complex, staggering stench—a ripe bouquet of old sweat, unwashed bodies, rancid animal fat, infected wounds, and things Michael's civilized nose couldn't even identify. It was the smell of a life without running water, of decay and hard living concentrated into a personal aura. It clawed at the back of his throat, threatening to bring up what little remained in his stomach.
How long has it been since this bloke had a wash? A year? Two?Michael thought, recoiling internally. Is bathing not a thing here?
The charming fantasy of the previous night fractured, replaced by a much harsher, smellier reality. Perhaps this world was not going to be the exotic playground he'd imagined. The adventure, it seemed, came with a very distinct, and very unpleasant, aroma.