by Gregg Chamberlain
To Sky Williamson, one of my best friends. Rest in Peace, ol' son.
It only seems like it's always full-moon night at the Tesseract. Even in broad daylight.
I was on the first week of my three weeks allotment of vacation time at the paper. So, early Friday afternoon, I dropped by the pub for a half-pint before taking in one of the matinees at the Mayfair. I was thinking maybe the latest Avengers or else something animated.
Ernie and Raj were at the corner chess table, studying the board. Sky and the Hobbit hovered over them, critiquing the game and offering advice on moves. A few other regulars occupied tables, enjoying a quiet afternoon glass while chatting or just contemplating the air.
Perched on my own stool at the end of the bar, I watched as Shale slowly drew off my mug full of Wolfshead draft. He was just picking up the steel ruler to swipe off the foam when the front door banged open.
Everyone looked up, squinting at the bright high-noon rectangle of light. In through the door, out of Vancouver's July heat wave, rushed this manic-looking guy, dressed up in what I guess you might call Mad Max modern, complete with a pair of goggles shoved up high on his forehead.
Wild eyes stared around the room. Fixed on Shale, standing behind the bar.
"Quick!" he shouted. "What year is this?"