What's a time machine actually for? Getting a glimpse of the past and immersing yourself in rich history? Or is it for erasing the past to create something new and frighteningly spectacular for the history books?
For Caroline Campbell, Ph.D, it is d...
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Media #1: Depiction of Tyra's outfit. Just pretend that the woman has brown hair.
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Media #2: Depiction of Caroline's outfit, but replace the shiny tights with cargo pants and shoes with combat boots.
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THE DOORBELL RINGS, AND I traipse down the steps to open the door. The heavy brown front door swings open to reveal Tyra standing confidently on my doorstep.
Tyra is outfitted in a body-hugging, black leather jumpsuit and laced-up stiletto boots. A leather belt is wrapped snugly against her slender waist, with a surplus of bullet capsules - or ammunition magazines, as Tyra had so mockingly stated - clipped onto it. The large machine gun in her hands completes the look.
Even so, I raise a supercilious brow. "This isn't London Fashion Week, moron. How are you going to run in those heels?"
"I've been strapping my mother's high heels to my own feet ever since I was six. I'm pretty sure I have practice," Tyra replies calmly.
"Fine," I sniff haughtily. "But my outfit is a lot more practical," I gesture to my simple black turtleneck and cargo pants. "Take those ridiculous shoes off before entering, by the way. There's a no-footwear rule in my house - there are approximately 421,000 bacteria on the soles of our shoes."
With that, Tyra unlaces her boots, protesting about how long she took to get the laces tied "just right".
I shrug and give a noncommittal hum. "Nice gun, by the way."
"Yeah, I borrowed it from the gun range," Tyra looks down at the massive firearm fondly.
"Are you talking borrowed, or borrowed?" I place more inflection on the word in order to convey my true question.
"Normal borrowed, of course."
"So you've got to return it, then? Boring," I turn and make my way to the dining room, with Tyra in tow.
I had prepared lots of food for breakfast, with French toast, eggs and bacon piled high on top of the white porcelain plates, which are crammed on my small dining table. Baked beans are crammed into another bowl, and yet another plate holds a massive serving of fluffy mashed potato.
