New Kids On The Block

Savannah, Georgia, late 1990.

A young man of eighteen staples fliers around his college campus, advertising his upcoming periodical. And his Cult.

A spectral figure approaches the young man. “Wow,” the strange figure exclaims. “You really hate the New Kids On The Block, don’t you?”

The nascent cult leader stops his stapling and faces the stranger with a scowl. “What’s it to you, fuck-face?” he spits, biting back an appalling North Jersey accent.

“It’s just ironic, that’s all,” the stranger replies. “I’m from the future, and I happen to know that you love movies with one of the New Kids in them.”

“You’re full of shit,” says the lad with the staple gun.

“Oh wait; I’ve got that wrong. You love movies with Marky Mark in them. Marky Mark from the Funky Bunch. That’s what I meant,” the strange figure says.

“Bullshit.”

“Dude- you like a movie that ends with Marky Mark pulling his cock out. You tell people it’s equal to Citizen Kane. That’s you in the future, dude. I dunno about all this ‘cult’ business.”

“You’re still obsessed with toy robots in the future, too,” the stranger continues. “You’ve spent hard-earned money and countless hours watching a movie with a live-action Optimus Prime… and Marky Mark.“

The air cracks with the sharp sound of staple gun against skull. The stranger drops to the sidewalk, unconscious. “Tell me then, future boy,” the lad screams, “who’s the director of Star Wars in 2015?!”

As the lad traipses off to continue his advertising campaign, the stranger wheezes two words almost imperceptibly:

“Don’t ask.”