A questionable figure stood peculiarly still in the doorway, as if examining, or rather marveling at, every little detail of the bar. How there were no instruments in sight to account for the loud music, how the lamps were supernaturally lit with no visible flame, and how a picture hung on the wall somehow morphed into different shapes and colors, displaying a series of moving images. The questionable figure was dressed rather peculiarly. With what appeared to be a bath mat over his shoulders, a quilt around his waist, and a hanging vase on his head, he looked like a fugitive that had broken into a house to change out of his prison uniform, but couldn’t find any clothes, so made use of whatever was laying about.
It was almost as if he had been untwined from his position in space and time, and flung forward an epoch or two, particularly because untwined from his position in space and time, and flung forward an epoch or two, was precisely what this man had been.
The most questionable aspect of this peculiar matter was that this man, questionably and peculiarly enough, had in fact been, Genghis Khan. (What Genghis Khan was doing in the 21st century and how his thoughts and actions were thoroughly depicted remain two of life’s greatest mysteries. Mainly because many experts falsely speculate that this whole story was actually made up by an absurdly sanguine sixteen-year-old Simon Rich wannabe with an unquenchable thirst for online popularity.)
Genghis Khan carefully edged his way to a nearby table and took a seat. He looked around in bewilderment. A man on the table to his right seemed to be engaged in a highly contentious argument, his tone growing more belligerent after every four-second pause he took to stare mightily into the distance. Another man, seated opposite to him, looked as though he found his companion’s burdensome rage rather amusing, giggling and mentioning something about a Thanksgiving dinner at his mother-in-law’s. This went on for a couple of minutes, and no matter how hard Genghis Khan tried to decipher what in the Mongol Empire had been going on between these two men, it was simply beyond his cognitive span. His first explanation was that if these cyborgs were able to contrive those fancy moving paintings, and the incomprehensible horseless carriages outside, they must have reshaped the basics of social interaction. He then surmised that it might have had something to do with the rectangular hand-held devices pressed to one ear, but instantly dismissed that theory as being utter bollocks.
As Genghis Khan sat there, feeling extremely desolate and betrayed, like a five-year-old that has lost sight of his mum at Target, an attractive, young-looking American blonde, that seemed as though she must have had a drink or seventeen too many, outrageously committed the abominable and often brutally punishable act of making eye contact without formally requesting permission to do so. Oh how he’d love to set fire to her village and enslave its women. If only he’d known where in the world, if not a whole nother, his men were.
“I like your boots, genuine leather?” Inquired the underdressed little outlaw.
“Imported straight from Kazakhstan. They weren’t as waterproof as the Kazakhs promised though.”
“So I torched their country.”
The blonde giggled awkwardly, stuck out a hand, and said, “I’m Sam.”
He looked at her outstretched arm, at her, then back at her arm.
She looked at it at too, then at him.
He was looking at her again.
Slowly and shyly, she lowered it and grabbed a seat.
“So,” she tried to say, after four unusually long seconds of silence, “what do you do?”
“I’m Genghis Khan!” Said Genghis Khan.
“Nice to meet you,” replied Sam kindly, “so what do you do?”
Could anyone get drunk enough not to recognize Genghis Khan? Thought Genghis Khan. Shit, I’ve impregnated more women than any other man in recorded history, I’m probably her father!
“I’m an uncompromisingly direct real estate broker,” uttered Genghis Khan. “Can you picture that stretch of land between Iraq and South Korea on a map?”
“Uhm, I guess.”
“I own that.”
She laughed sarcastically. “Isn’t that, like, half of the globe?”
“Yes. A human lifetime isn’t a sufficient period of time to take over both halves of the globe, I once realized. Or will realize, I’m quite confused. Last thing I remember was dying shortly after coming to that realization. And the last time I checked, people don’t usually return after being proclaimed clinically dead by the finest physician in my half of the globe, locked up in a two ton sarcophagus, and buried somewhere deep under the Onon river. Do you have anything to do with this? You were assigned by the Jin army, weren’t you? Huh?”
“Whoa, someone’s had too much to drink,” muttered Sam.
Genghis Khan snatched Sam’s glass out her hand. He desperately needed a drink to wrap his head around the preposterous state of affairs he was thrown into. He kicked his feet up, leant back, and took a loud, passionate sip.
He was, after all, Genghis Khan.
Discussion Question: Should Sam fuck Genghis Khan? Why or why not?