The Chasing of Moons

An Annoyingly Mysterious Gee

The age of the joint has never been as transparent as it is now. There's a noise like water hitting tin, the roof in heavy disrepair leaking with a small trickling sound of water into a glass behind the counter. The creaking sounds from above lend fear to the idea that the roof might just up and collapse in on itself.

Conversation within the bar is completely halted when a clap of thunder rumbles from only a mile or two away, followed by the sound of laughter from the bar counter where three boys sit.

The smallest of the boys doesn't look old enough to be drinking, and the reason for this is because he's not old enough. None of them are, but at least the other two don't entirely look it.

According to his ID, his name is Franklin Durham. According to his friends, he's a twat with a face like an orangutan. According to his mother, he's a little angel. According to him, he's just a slightly snarky, somewhat inferior-minded, above-average player of Tetris. His name is Frank, and the barman must be incredibly thick if he believes for one second that any of them are twenty one.

In total, five people sit at the bar. The three boys in the middle, a woman to the side with mascara running down her face, and a man, somewhere in his mid to late twenties, on the left of where Frank sits now.

"To be fair though," one of the boys says, the one with the enormous forehead and the ego even larger, "it's not like it's impossible."

"No see, the reason they tack on that 'fi' at the end is because it's fiction. Science fiction. That's what it stands for you dolt," Frank says to him.

"You can't prove that it's impossible, can you? You've got no proof. Like, you've never met someone from the future, have you? So if you haven't than it's literally impossible to know for sure."

"No, it really is," the other boy says. "Because, like, I've never seen anyone with telekinesis but that doesn't make it real."

"He's right, Bren," Frank says, "There's really no justification for time travel."

"Oh sure, take his side," the boy with the forehead says.

"Dude, the fact that we're even debating this it all is sad beyond belief. Time travel is not real. End of story," Frank announces, rather loudly at the sound of another ferocious crack of thunder, which conveniently disguises the man behind Frank laughing to himself.

"Okay, seriously though, it'd probably take a whole hell of a lot of electricity or something, like probably not enough energy could even be found on this planet, but anything is possible."

"Anything's possible, huh? So you're saying it's completely possible that Pete's going to get laid by Angelina Jolie sometime in the next five minutes?" Frank offers.

"Anything's possible, it's just not necessarily plausible."

"Why would Angelina Jolie even be here, and why wouldn't she be attracted to me if she were?" The boy, presumably Pete, asks.

"Because Pete, and I mean this in the sweetest possible way, you're disgusting," Frank says.

"Fuck off."

"But if you were to like get a shitton of electricity and had science enough to back it up, why not? I mean, look at Frankenstein."

"Yeah, okay, again, we run into the fact that you're example is science fiction, emphasis on the fiction. Apart from that though, I don't see why it wouldn't be possible. There's a storm out there right now, why don't you go stand under a metal rod and Pete and I will watch from a safe distance."

"Absolutely! Brendon, I am very much supportive of this plan," Pete says.

"You guys are dicks," The boy, Brendon, sighs, taking a sip of his completely illegally purchased alcohol.