Another Whole Nother Story by Dr. Cuthbert Soup

A LitTle Advice

Greetings, everyone. I’m Dr. Cuthbert Soup with a startling

announcement. Time travel is now a reality. I repeat: I’m Dr. Cuthbert Soup, found er, president, and vice president of the National Center for Unsolicited Advice.

The question I’m asked most frequently— besides “Who are you and what are you doing here?”—

is “Why on earth would you, the multimillionaire own er of a huge

corporation, take time out from your busy schedule to write a book?”

Well, for one thing I have always enjoyed telling stories. Living in Vienna at the height of the Great Sausage Famine, my family had very little money for books. But every Friday night we would all sit around the fi re and tell stories, which was very exciting because we did not have a fi replace. So, as you might imagine, most of the stories were about how to escape from a burning building.

But my real inspiration for writing a book came to me not long ago while strolling through my friendly

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neighborhood bookstore, where I spied, high upon one of the many shelves, a very conspicuous empty slot. Needless to say, I was appalled. It occurred to me rather immediately that someone needed to write something in order to fi ll that awful black hole of booklessness right between War and Peace and Wig Making for

Dummies.I now had the motivation to write a book but still

lacked a good story to tell. That would change sooner than I expected. I returned home to my luxurious man-sion and opened my equally luxurious mailbox (it has its own bowling alley) to fi nd a postcard from my good friend and former classmate from Southwestern North Dakota State University, Ethan Cheeseman.

The news, as it turns out, was not good. I was shocked to learn that Ethan’s lovely wife, Olivia, had been poisoned by evil villains (for my money, the worst kind of villains), forcing Ethan and his three smart, witty, attractive, polite, and relatively odor- free chil-dren to go on the run. In case something happened to Ethan or the children, he wanted to make sure that his story was told— and he had chosen me to be the one to tell it.

I started receiving postcards on a regular basis, sometimes as many as four or fi ve per week, each one relaying Ethan’s desperate attempt to stay one step ahead of an ever- growing number of pursuers while

he worked to perfect his greatest invention: a time


machine, which he hoped could be used to save the life of the woman he and his children loved so dearly.

I began the task of turning these postcards into the story of Ethan’s desperate plight, though my progress was slow. You see, unlike most writers today, I do not use a computer. I write the old- fashioned way: on the walls of caves. (Unlike computers, they rarely crash.) With a blend of seven different berries smooshed together, the end result is perhaps the only book you will ever read that is made with ten percent real fruit juice. But please don’t eat it. Instead, I strongly advise you to read it because, in addition to being rich in vitamins A and C, it is also chock-full of excitement, intrigue, adventure, misadventure, pirates, castles, con-sonants, vowels (including the controversial “sometimes Y” vowel), and scads of unsolicited advice.

And, if all that weren’t enough, it also includes docu-mentation of mankind’s fi rst attempt to travel through time, as Ethan and his children embark upon this his-toric journey in an effort to save the life of Olivia, their beloved wife and mother, and to break the curse of the White Gold Chalice.


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ChapTer 1

Everyone knows that time fl ies when you’re having fun. What many don’t realize is that time also fl ies when you’re having: breakfast, lunch, a bad hair day, people over for dinner, diffi culty with math, your cake and eating it too, second thoughts, a ner vous breakdown, trouble breathing, a baby, or a cow.

In other words, no matter what you may be having at any given moment, time is always fl ying. Thus, in order to travel into the past, one must fl y even faster than time itself. This can make for a very bumpy and a very long ride.

“Dad, are we there yet?” groaned Gerard, his skinny, eight- year- old legs fi dgeting in perfect rhythm with his reckless gum chewing. The gum was Gerard’s last piece and, since he and his family were racing along the Time Arc to a year long before bubble gum had been invented, he knew the fl avorless wad of pink goo might have to last him quite a long time.

“I told you to go to the bathroom before we left the twenty- fi rst century,” said Gerard’s father, who was


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perhaps the greatest scientist and inventor of all time. Mr. Cheeseman kept his eyes on the control panel, expertly working the many knobs and dials, fi ghting to keep the time machine, known simply as the LVR, on course for the year 1668. I should mention, by the way, that LVR stands for Luminal Velocity Regulator. I suppose it could also stand for Large Venezuelan Rats, but in this case it does not.

“Sorry, Gerard, you’ll have to wait a few minutes yet,” Mr. Cheeseman continued.

In the rush to stay one step ahead of the many govern-ment agents, international superspies, and corporate vil-lains all trying to get their hands on the LVR, he did not have time to hook up the plumbing system on his mir-rored, egg- shaped, disco ball–like time machine before he and his three children— along with Captain Jibby and his band of misfi t circus performers— piled in, buckled up, and slipped into the past.

“But I really have to go,” Gerard insisted.“We should be there soon,” assured Mr. Cheeseman.

“Unless we run into some unexpected disturbulence.”Disturbulence is the term used to describe any small

fi ssures or static along the Time Arc that can result in a time traveler being bounced off course and ending up in the wrong time, the wrong place, or, in the most unfortunate of cases, several times and places at once, a phenomenon known in the scientifi c community as Some Times, which is not at all where Mr. Cheeseman and his passengers wanted to end up.


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He wiped a bead of sweat from his forehead, then turned to Jough, his fourteen- year- old son and copi lot, sitting at the controls next to him. “It’s awfully hot in here. What’s the reading on that refractometer, Jough?”

“Forty- two hundred and climbing,” said Jough, his voice alternating between man and boy.

“Are you sure?”“I’m sure. Why?”“The refractor shields . . . they’re only good to forty-

fi ve hundred.” Mr. Cheeseman looked worried, and this worried Jough. It didn’t help matters that Pinky, the family’s hairless fox terrier, was sitting at Mr. Cheeseman’s feet, growling steadily. You see, Pinky had psychic abilities and almost never growled unless she sensed danger.

“So what happens if it hits forty- fi ve hundred?” Jough asked, though he was pretty sure he knew the answer. After all, there was a reason the LVR had no windows. The light along the Time Arc was so intense and produced such extreme heat that, if the refractor shields failed to hold, the LVR and everyone in it would be instantly reduced to cinders.

“It’ll be okay,” said Mr. Cheeseman, not entirely con-vinced of this but not wanting to alarm the children.

“Forty- three hundred,” announced Jough from the side of his mouth, his eyes refusing to leave the refractometer as the needle continued to inch into the red zone. Pinky’s growling grew louder.

“Dad?” said Maggie, Mr. Cheeseman’s twelve- year- old


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daughter and the spitting image of his auburn- haired wife, Olivia. “What’s going on? Why is Pinky growling?”

“It’s nothing. Everything’s fi ne.” Mr. Cheeseman threw the words quickly over his shoulder, then returned his focus to the control panel. “We’ll be there soon. Why don’t you make the announcement?”

A veritable genius, Maggie was smart enough to realize that her father was only attempting to take her mind off the danger growing with every upward tick of that tem-perature gauge. Still, she did as he wished. Without hesi-tation, she unbuckled her seat belt, stood up, and turned to face her audience. In addition to her little brother, there were the six members of Captain Jibby’s Traveling Circus Sideshow, all sitting in the cramped confi nes of the LVR’s interior, constructed mainly of parts from a used motor home.

“Ladies and gentlemen, may I have your attention please,” began Maggie. “We are approaching the year 1668. At this time, make sure your seat belts are securely fas-tened and your seat backs have been returned to their full upright and locked position. In the unlikely event of a water landing, your seat cushion may be used as a fl ota-tion device.”

“My seat doesn’t have a cushion,” said Gerard. He dem-onstrated by slapping the hard wooden surface of the chair with his open palm.

“Then you’ll have to swim. And please put your seat back forward.”


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“But I don’t get it,” said Gerard. “Do you want me to put my seat back or forward?”

Maggie stepped behind Gerard’s chair and shoved it forward, putting an immediate end to any confusion.

“Forty- four fi fty,” said Jough. Sweat now poured from beneath the thick black curls that adorned his head and gathered among the wiry fi bers of his patchy teenage mustache.

There was no question that the interior of the LVR was heating up. Jough removed his navy blue baseball cap, stitched with a white letter P, and ran his forearm across his sweaty brow.

Suddenly, a very large and very loud bump rocked the LVR. Maggie quickly returned to her seat and buckled up. “Forty- four seventy- fi ve,” said Jough.

“Come on,” said Mr. Cheeseman, begging the machine to hold together. “Come on!”

Gerard looked up at his big sister sitting next to him. “Is it okay? Are we going to die?” Maggie said nothing, unwilling to make a promise she might not be able to keep. Instead, she reached out and took Gerard’s hand in hers and squeezed tightly. If this was meant to reassure Gerard, it did not.

At that moment, he realized just how much he missed Steve, his beloved sock puppet, knitted with love by his late mother just days before she was killed by corporate thugs. For two years Steve had been Gerard’s constant sidekick, pro-viding him with companionship, words of encouragement,


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and a wicked tan line. But now, like Gerard’s beloved mother, Steve the sock puppet was gone.

“Twenty seconds to landing,” said Mr. Cheeseman.“Four- four eighty- fi ve,” said Jough, biting his lip.“It’s going to be close,” said Mr. Cheeseman.There was another bump, this one louder and stronger

than the last. Maggie looked at the ceiling, which vibrated mightily. It appeared as though it could be torn away at any second, exposing them all to the deadly light just on the other side of the four- inch- thick protective shell of the LVR.

“Forty- four ninety!” Jough struggled to remain calm but he could feel his sense of reason slipping away.

“Fifteen seconds!” Mr. Cheeseman had to shout to be heard over the deafening rattle as the LVR fought to remain joined at the seams. He began counting down the seconds. And as he counted down, Jough counted up.

“Ten! Nine! Eight!”“Forty- four ninety- fi ve!”“Seven! Six!”“Forty- four ninety- seven!”“Five! Four!”“Forty- four ninety- nine!”“Three! Two!”“Forty- fi ve hund—”Before Jough could push the words from his mouth, a

chunk of ceiling the size of a beach towel peeled away with the sickening sound of rent metal. Blinding light poured


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into the LVR. Gerard screamed. Maggie screamed. Pinky yowled. The chunk peeled back farther yet until it tore off completely from the rest of the LVR, and more light poured in, followed by more screams and a deafening crash.

And then, just like that, there was nothing.


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Another Whole Nother Story by Dr. Cuthbert Soup