The Minute Man: Part 4
Upon putting her foot down, Dakota learned one of the fundamental differences between the past and the future. In the past, there are a lot more horses and fewer people cleaning up after them. A chant of obscenities sounded the lament for her poor mary janes.
“Quiet,” said Travis and went back to his vigilant monitoring of the whorehouse. When Dakota had asked him why they had to wait out here by the livestock instead of going inside, he had insisted it involved preserving history. Two more hours of her nagging finally managed to get more details out of the government employee. One of the founding fathers was inside and he had to leave before they could go in. Agent Travis flat out refused to reveal which one but whomever it was, she was impressed with their stamina.
Dakota fidgeted with bored energy. “So why are we here?” she asked.
“We need to keep a low-impact profile while we’re here and now. In order to do that we must procure clothing for you that’s local to this space-time region,” rattled off Agent Travis in his best agency monotone.
“So not so much with the synthetic fibers and modern look”, said Dakota.
“Actually, it’s the pants. Women aren’t of the liberated and voting type these days,” said Travis.
“Neither are the men,” snapped Dakota. Agent Travis gave her a look that implied that he did not hold an appreciation for a quick wit nor people smarter than himself. Dakota believed it was a look he had to use a lot.
“It’s clear. Let’s move,” said Travis and moved from his crouch towards the back door of the full-service establishment. Dakota followed and prayed the horses didn’t come out back.
“My real question was why are we chasing vikings into colonial Boston?” she asked.
“Communism,” said Travis as he edged up to the door. “Militant marxists who decided the cold war was better won through retroactive editing of their enemy’s timeline.”
“But vikings?” said Dakota and cocked her head to the side in puzzlement.
Agent Travis pulled our a pair of flintlock pistols from his belt and gave a glance back at Dakota. “Why do you think they call him, Erik the Red?” he said. And with that, he kicked down the wooden door and barreled into a parlor full of stunned men and women.
“Everyone take your clothes off!” yelled Travis.
“For your country,” he added.
Copyright 2007, JJ Kahrs