Chapter 3

Jesus Who?!

"Guys! Stop!" Zim shouted. He held up his hands. A tremendous fart shot from his body, and the force of it was so intense he was afraid that he'd shat himself. With a ginger hand, he reached behind him to make sure there were no lumps in his pants.

And then he remembered the legion of centurions bearing down on him with their spears at the ready. When he looked up he noticed that they'd all paused. Not that they'd stopped charging him, but they were frozen in place as if someone had hit the pause button on the universe.

There was a new figure standing in front of the fray, and he could move. He ambled forward, his hands held together in front of his belt. He dressed entirely in black, and his hair was cut very short. What little he had was slicked back. Festering under his lower lip like a sheen of moss was a soul patch. Strapped to his back was what looked like a katana blade.

"Who the hell are you?" Zim asked.

"Don't you recognize me?" the stranger asked.

"Well, you do look kind of familiar."

"I'm you. From the future."

"Future Zim Jesus?" Zim asked.

"No, just plain old Cris Zim."

"No way. I'd never grow a soul patch."

"Well, you do in the future."

"I do not!" Zim said.

"You do! I'm proof of it! You grow a soul patch and become a supercool hip killer like me!"

"Well, you do look kind of cool. Except for the soul patch."

"Jesus!" Future Zim slapped a hand over his mouth, then turned to look up the hill where the real Jesus was frozen in place, waiting for nails to be driven through his wrists. "Sorry, dude."

"Who is that guy, anyway?" Zim asked. "Should I save him? Is that what I'm supposed to do?"

"No. Let me repeat that. DO NOT SAVE JESUS CHRIST. If you think the Zardoz world is fucked up, you should see the world in which Jesus Christ survives the crucifixion."

"Jesus who?"

"I know you're not that stupid," Future Zim said. "I remember."

"Jesus Christ? Really? I'm at the crucifixion?"

Future Zim rubbed his eyes. "I don't have time for this. I can only pause time for two minutes. Listen very closely to what I say. Do not interrupt me."

"Okay."

"Get back in the phone booth and dial 9763845#*. It won't lead to where the book says because the antenna is broken. It will take you to the distant future. Say the number back to me."

"Which number?"

"9763845! Pound! Star!"

Zim repeated it three times.

"Good. There is a man in the future who has a time machine. You will have to go underground with him to find it. Then you must steal it from him because it will bring you to exactly where you want to go, which is July 8, 1875. All right?"

"Doesn't this other guy need the time machine?"

"No. If he uses it he will go back to his own time, and he'll be tempted to use it again and again, ripping holes in the fabric of time and space, which will eventually destroy all of creation. Strand him in the future where he can't do any harm."

"Isn't that the same thing I'm doing?" Zim asked. "Tampering with time?"

"No. You're putting right what once went wrong. I only have ten seconds left. Remember: the underground people hate fire. Now go! I'll hold the Romans off!"

"This is too weird for me," Zim said. "But I don't like it here, so goodbye." He started walking back toward the phone booth.

Just then the world exploded with noise, and Future Zim unsheathed his blade and went to work. He cut down the Romans with such amazing speed and accuracy that Zim had no choice but to believe the guy was a phony. There was no way that he would become Future Zim. He was too killing-machine-ish. Besides, where did he get the ability to stop time?

Things quickly became bloodier than Braveheart as Future Zim whirled like a dervish through the marauding Romans, sending bits of them about in a bloody shower. A severed hand flew out of the crowd and splattered against the phone booth. Some of the red, red kroovy splashed on Zim, and he knew that if he didn't get out of here he'd get his clothes dirty. Again.

He hopped into the phone booth as the pile of bodies grew taller. He wondered if maybe the act of killing so many Romans would have a disastrous effect on the future. Probably not, since Future Zim clearly knew best.

Zim looked at the keypad and tried to remember the numbers. He always laughed at Ash in the Evil Dead movies for never remembering the important stuff, but now that it was happening to him it wasn't quite so funny. He opened the booth again. "Hey, what's that number?"

Future Zim, covered in sweat and blood, decapitated a centurion and shouted the number back to him one more time. Zim entered it as he heard it. "Thanks!" He closed the door and pressed star and pound at the same time. The familiar hum and crackle began, and as he descended into the earth he watched as Future Zim disappeared, probably to go back to the future. He tried to imagine what a future without a martyred Jesus would be like. It was too hard, so he stopped.

Traveling through the wormholes was getting a little bit easier on him. He still felt like he was being flung around, but the sickness was gone. It didn't help that the booth still stank of vomit, but he knew he'd be all right. This was to be the final trip in the phone booth.

Once more he came crashing down from the sky, where he landed in a luscious field. The vegetation looked absolutely glorious, as if he'd reached paradise. This did not make sense, since the news was always full of stories about how the planet was being raped and destroyed. If that were true, then why did everything look so pretty here in the distant future?

Even the architecture looked nice. There was a giant ziggurat nearby, and a bunch of blond-haired, blue-eyed people lounging around. Was it possible that employment was finally a thing of the past? Could it be that he'd found a paradise where he could do absolutely nothing all day and not be bothered by people like Fitz, who believed in work ethic?

Then he saw what looked like a chimney in the ground, and smoke rose in a constant stream from it as if there was some kind of factory down there. He remembered what Future Zim said about underground people, so he knew what he had to do next.

But he didn't care. The future was awesome. Why be anywhere else?

He got out of the phone booth and walked to the lazy people, grinning. "Hello, everyone! My name is Cris Zim, and I was thinking about hanging out with you guys. Is there room for one more?"

"We are the Eloi," a man said. "You are welcome to join us. Rest your weary head, friend." He gestured to the ground.

Zim looked around and picked the hottest chick in the group, and he plopped down next to her. "Hey, I'm Cris. What's your name?"

Before she could answer a man burst out from the ziggurat. He did not look like the rest of the Eloi, and his face was covered in sweat. "What did you people do to Weena?!" He spoke with a British accent.

"We sacrificed her to the Morlocks," one of the Eloi said.

"You did what?!"

"We needed her sacrifice to continue living as we do," the Eloi man said.

"You fools!" The man was about to run past them to the chimney in the ground when he saw Zim. "You don't look like an Eloi. Who are you?"

"Aargh!" Zim shouted. When the man didn't laugh, he sighed. "I'm Cris Zim. I'm from the past."

"American?"

"I guess."

"Well, no one's perfect. I'm H. George Wells. Would you help me save my beloved Weena from the Morlocks?"

Zim sighed. No matter where he wound up, he was fated to never have any rest. "Fine." Then, under his breath: "Jerk."