I should mention that this is not an official Marchifornication post. This is simply the insanity that Marchifornication will inspire. Many gratitudes and apologies to the BHGP Braintrust, and HFMR, et al.
He sits alone, in his own dark corner of the restaurant, pawing like a fox through the last of his desserts. His plump cheeks accented by a small mouth, ringed in chocolate pudding. He wonders aloud, as he replays events over and over in his mind, trying to figure out how everything turned so quickly:
"Why Dinosaur Racecars?"
"Why first round?"
"HOW THE FUCK WAS I A FOUR SEED!?"
/calls for check
"They look like big, good, strong hands. Don't they? I always thought that's what they were. My little friends. The little man with his racing snail, the Nighthob, even the stupid bat. I couldn't hold on to them. The nothing pulled them right out of my hands. I failed."
As he waits he notices a member of the kitchen staff, wearing an apron with a grease stain in the shape of Barry Collier, talking with several others. He watches as each chef slowly passes the note like it was on slow-fire, before slowly, but ultimately rushing it to the stained cook to make a last-second move to deliver the crumpled message. He winds his way to the dimly lit stack of plates in the darkened corner booth and leaves the palm-sweat soiled missive, quickly hidden, turning to return to his culinary duties a split-second before the check arrives.
After paying the tab the mysterious man unfolds the strange correspondance to investigate and finds the words he'd been looking for, written in handwriting that looked like it came from someone with two right brain hemispheres and no left.
I matched you up against Dinosaur Racecars and I did it for a reason. Meet me outside the foodcourt. Come alone.
Thank you for contacting me. I just want to understand why you would set me up to fail. I mean, I had no shot against velociraptors driving racecars. All I've got is the Pick N'Popsickle, and that's nothing when up against dinosaur motorsports. Why wHOLY SHALLOW HAL, I'M SKINNY!
Nevermind the why. You've got a future much brighter than you could have ever imagined, but you've got to listen to me. You're the only human to have ever been sanctioned to race in an IDRI contest, due to your arms being absurdly short even by T-Rex standards.
...well enough that they never allowed any other human racers to compete, condemning us all to a fiery... uh, I mean if only you'd have won they would have had to allow other humans to participate. You'd have been like Tiger Woods.
You're registered with the IDRI as a Cougillsaurus Rex, and that's how you drove last time. They didn't check that stuff back then. Those were the days. They do now of course, but you've already been sanctioned, so you're Grandfathered in.
/resume time traveling
/two hours later
//Cougs scratches his head with a metal finger