In my transdimensional travels beyond a certain galaxy far, far away, I’ve run into several odd characters you might like to know. On occasion I even found them at each other’s throats, but I digress. In the universe called MOCpages, I encountered a faceless figure, a peculiar conglomeration of old and new and flare and attitude. Now, I admire attitude, but when someone identifies himself only as “Trevor Frederick Otto Lionel,” I begin growing suspicious.
I think he’s trying to be duplicitous, just because I’m an AFOL, and thus on the opposing side. I have gone the way of all flesh. But I digress.
I also ventured into the deserts of the American West a hundred years gone. I met a certain tycoon with a goatee carving out rails, boarder towns, carnivals, and old mines. I steered clear of Mr. Grguric. I did, however, encounter a cowgirl named Elsie and a prospector named Scrib Rite. I didn’t trust neither of ‘em. What self-respecting prospector keeps company with a cowgirl? Just look at ‘em and see how unsavory they are.
I felt a little too disoriented until I found myself in a franchise. I stepped through the portal and found myself beset by a ravening monster with feet like a kangaroo and teeth like a hippopotamus. I was about to be overwhelmed when muskets rang out and the creature stumbled and bolted. It almost reached the bracken, but a vial of flaming green gel struck it and set it alight. I soon saw the one who threw the potion: a combative chemist in a conical hat, a skold.
He identified himself as Rufus Sagacious Rite, and his pistol wielding comrade as the gunslinger Frey Cumup IV.
With them was the illustrious longrifle pediteer Quince. Quince kept glancing into the thickets and pointing his rifle at the overhanging tree limbs.
We trekked to the nearest wayhouse, where I tried to explain to them that they belonged to D.M. Cornish’s Monster Blood Tattoo universe, but they had none of it and left me with the bar tab.
I humphed and spun the clompus until its needle and three hands came to rest in the wonderful clanking world of steam and gears. While there, I encountered a villainous member of the gentry, a Lord Kurfuffal, and the virtuous if naïve inventor Kirk Mudgeon.
Lord Kurfuffal had stolen Mudgeon’s inheritance, his daughter, and most of his patents, suddenly rocketing the Kurfuffal estate to affluence and almost destroying Mudgeon. Mudgeon was later felled by a ray gun he invented, when Kurfuffal framed him for crashing a helium balloon into the tower of London. Kurfuffal and his stolen bride lived happily ever after.
Until, several millennia later, their descendant, Captain Hegemony Kirka Scherit learned of Kurfuffal’s base treachery.
Curious of Mudgeon’s fate, she traveled back via wormhole. Unfortunately, a slight miscalculation and a quantum disturbance deharmonized the time-travel inhibitor on her starship. Hegemony’s crew were not very helpful.
By the time she had fixed it (she had none of Mudgeon’s tech savvy), her ship dropped out of the time stream into a lost dark age populated by warring knights and a dragon without patience.
Hegemony, her crew, and I were ambushed by a man with red hair and a black helmet, two black haired civilians, and a dragon.
The cyborg captain quickly engaged the knight in personal combat, not knowing that he was Mudgeon’s distant ancestor and that his apprentice in the hood was Kurfuffal’s ancestor. Hegemony was about to land the killing blow when a Centaur galloped up to us and broke the news to her.
I chimed in with what I knew about this timeline. Hegemony weighed her options, in view of time paradox theory, deterministic universes, libertarian free will, and Reformed theology. Hegemony fainted from the effort (she did not, will not, does not have Mudgeon’s genius), so the robot carried her back to the ship. I sat down with the centaur and the knight to hear the latter’s story, but I quickly grew bored of this “Erick,” so I spun the clompus and made for the MOCpages universe once more. Maybe Mr. Trevor F.O. Lionel was not so disturbing after all.