The final countdown struck one second too late. Mercury Sandbolt darted through the hazy aura of the time rip to a fragmented array of existences, parallel and synchronized. Our hero barrelled and rolled and mounted his space steed of heptamensions, futures in sight.

“Zway, tu comp!” spat nicotine lips towards the fading horizon. The mountain goat’s hoary mane felt firm and reassuring under the leathery grips of her fingers. Crisp, dry breezes through dark, flowing hair. A mountain goat neighed, beside her leathery grasp all the same.

“You can’t be cer sick”—motion commotion—“how can you be cer sick”—bump motion commotion—“when yer not in a cerrr?” Canadian whisky wet fresh on Micky McMarmot’s red, filthy beard cheeks.

Sandblasted and broken and smeared and cracked and mangled and torn and more.

Mercury Sandbolt was fragmented perceptions synchronized to metaphysical motions and meandering. Compounded in four bleeding frames.