Sadly, that was probably true. “Are you going to shoot me now?”
“You’ve still got a few minutes left before I’m allowed to. I slept on your couch so I could catch up with you nice and early. As fun as this assignment has been for me, and I really have had a wonderful time hanging out with you, there’s a fourth-century Byzantine who needs to get pushed in front of a speeding horse.”
“Did you really go out for an early morning run before coming back to assassinate me?”
“It’s a beautiful day. Why wouldn’t I? By the way, I said hello to all your neighbors. They seem really nice.”
Chris was just too damned cheerful, and Stanley was too hungover to deal with it. His soon-to-be murderer went over and opened the curtains to let in the bright morning sunshine, which really stung the old eyeballs. Then Chris pulled up a chair and sat down.
“I enjoyed our philosophical discussion last night. I think we’re friends now. So please take my advice in the helpful spirit in which it is meant, and not as a personal attack. In the common vernacular of your people, it is time to get real.”
Stanley laughed and then found another pillow to cover his face with. “I’ve never had an intervention from a time traveler before. Go for it.”
“You really need to quit feeling sorry for yourself, Stanley. I see in you incredible potential, but as long as you blame others for your problems, it gives you an excuse to wallow in self-pity rather than move forward. You used to have dreams. You used to want to create things. Life is what you make of it. Though bad things will happen along the way, ultimately you are the one most responsible for how your life turns out.”
“So now you’re a motivational speaker too?”
“I thought it was pretty good. I gave this same frank talk to young Abraham Lincoln and he turned out okay.”
“He got shot too.”
“True, but it’s not about the destination, it’s about the journey . . . I read that on a poster once. But basically, Stanley, you are the greatest hindrance to your own happiness.”
Under the harsh light of day, Stanley knew that Chris was telling the truth. Being totally honest with himself—and facing certain death made that easy—he realized that he’d wasted a lot of time spinning his wheels and whining about things he didn’t even really know much about. It was just easier and safer than actually doing stuff. Doing stuff was hard.
But if you never tried anything, you’d never accomplish anything, and that kind of sucked.
Stanley sat up, feeling some pride for the first time in a long time, and said, “You know what, Chris? You’re right. I’m going to turn things around. Starting right now.”
“That’s the spirit, Stanley.” Chris checked his watch. “I would suggest a celebratory breakfast, but it is almost eight and I still need to shoot you.”
With his decision made, Stanley just needed a distraction. Luckily that was the exact moment that Fluffles the cat brushed past Chris’s leg.
Stanley pointed at his cat and shouted, “Land shark!”
Chris leapt up. “Crap! Where?”
And then Stanley tackled him.
The two of them collided with the window, which shattered, and then they were plummeting toward the ground. Stanley only lived on the second floor, but hitting the grass still really friggin’ hurt. Stanley groaned as he sat up, and then realized that he was really thankful he’d hit the lawn, because Chris had landed on the fence, and was dangling there, impaled through the back by half a dozen iron fleurs-de-lis.
“Dude, are you alive?”
Chris lifted his head. “I am actually. Though even by my standards, this is quite the predicament.”
“Oh man, Chris, I’m sorry. That looks like it really hurts.”
“It sure does.” He tried to wiggle free, but was good and stuck. “But my terrible agony is not the important thing right now. The important thing is that you stood up for yourself despite overwhelming odds. I think you’ve made some real breakthroughs. Well done, Stanley.”