BRADLEY CORNFLAKE’S ESCAPE
‘Cornflake! Bradley Cornflake! Message for Bradley Cornflake!’
‘Here, boy!’ shouted Bradley Cornflake in as gruff a manner as his vocal apparatus allowed, all the while glaring around the hotel lobby in defiance, daring anyone to smirk. Nobody smirked. Instead, all busied themselves with newspapers, hat adjustment, wallet or purse inspection, whittling, any activity allowing them to avert their gazes from Mr. Bradley Cornflake, a known killer and terrible bad man.
‘Anything funny?’ roared Cornflake, and he snatched the piece of paper from the silver dish offered by the bellhop. In the face of Cornflake’s burning scowl, the bellhop melted away in lieu of waiting for a tip.
Cornflake perused the note. ‘It’s ready’ was all it said. The barest hint of a smile quivered at the opposing extremities of his mouth. He stuffed the note in his hatband, hurried through the revolving doors and onto the street. He dove for a cab and snarled the address. ‘And make it snappy!’ he added. The cab shot off and in minutes skidded to a stop in front of a warehouse.
‘Yeah, boss. Here, boss. It’s ready, boss,’ said Blinky, opening the door and bowing away.
Cornflake strode into the building. A single chair sat in the middle of an otherwise vast emptiness. The professor, smiling, stood next to the chair.
‘1874, San Francisco, right?’ said Cornflake. ‘No more 1950?’
The professor nodded. Cornflake seated himself on the chair, and whisshh he smiled in the mirror at his handlebar mustache and the derby hat perched on his head. Down the stairs he went and out into the Market Street hurly-burly. The accursed cereal wouldn’t be invented for decades.
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