For Want of a Dollar

Talbot saw an intriguing ad in the morning paper: Relive the Past. Not Yours. Somebody Else’s. Call for Details.

Disgusted with his miserable life, Talbot dialed the number.

“Past Lives Incorporated. Zero speaking.”

“I’m calling about your ad. What does it cost to relive somebody else’s past?”

“Ten thousand dollars.”

“Aw, hell. Fast-buck artists.”

“I assure you, sir, we’re highly respected. We’re listed on the New York Stock Exchange, registered with the Better Business Bureau, and we sponsor a Little League team. Plus, we have testimonials from highly satisfied customers, many of whom are famous. Right now, we’re having an end-of-month sale.”

“Sale or no, I can’t afford thousands of dollars.”

“I’m sure we can work something out. This is our slowest time of year. How about a dollar -- and your soul? You’ll have the time of your life, guaranteed. Or double your money back.”

Thirty minutes later, Talbot was sitting in a chair at the Past Lives office.

“Whose past would you like to relive?” Zero asked.

“Julius Caesar’s.”

“Wonderful choice!” Checking a computer printout, Zero added, “Right now Caesar’s last twenty years are available. Do you mind, at the end of twenty years, being dispatched with multiple stab wounds at the hands of Marc Anthony? For an additional dollar, we can arrange to make it painless.”

“What happens after he stabs me?”

“You’ll die, of course. But after you’re dead, we can bring you back to life for a dollar. Guaranteed. How can you lose? Want to make a deal to relive Caesar’s last twenty years?”

“Yeah.”

“Good. That’ll be a dollar, plus another dollar to make your stabbing painless. As for your soul, we won’t require that today. Our soul extractors are booked solid for the next year.”

Talbot paid and signed the contract.

“When do you want to get started?” Zero asked.

“How about tonight?”

“Sure. Take this pill at bedtime. It will put you into a deep sleep so we can transfer your brain waves and vital essences. When you wake up, you’ll be in Julius Caesar’s body. You will be in Cisalpine Gaul, by the way.”

“Where’s that?”

“It’s an old name for the area around France and Switzerland. It’s going to be chilly.”

“Should I wear a coat to bed?”

“No. You’ll wake up wearing Caesar’s winter clothes. You’re scheduled to lead Roman legions into battle at sunrise. In case you aren’t familiar with Roman history, you’re gonna whip the hell outta Vercingetorix.”

“Who’s he?”

“A two-bit, renegade tribal chief who drank too much wine and threatened Rome. Caesar’s teaching him a lesson. Actually, it’ll be over in a few hours, with you the winner. The spoils will include his magnificent daughter, who will be your slave for the next ten years. Think you can handle an eighteen-year-old, wanton hellcat tomorrow night?”

Talbot had a fabulous time whipping Vercingetorix and his tribesmen. His night with Vercingetorix’s insatiable daughter was indescribable.

Reliving Caesar’s past was more fun than Talbot had imagined, since Caesar’s last twenty years were filled with wine, women, and song, with some wars tossed in for diversion.

For nineteen years and eleven months, Talbot Caesar had the time of his life. As the days dwindled, he recalled his high school history. As Marc was due to assassinate Caesar in a couple of weeks, Talbot decided to beat him to the punch with a preemptive strike, figuring that if he eliminated his assassin, he could extend Caesar’s life long enough to be declared Emperor.

“Imagine,” Talbot muttered, “I only paid a buck to end up as the next Emperor of the entire Roman Empire. Helluva deal.”

Eleven days before zero hour, Marc Anthony jumped Caesar and stabbed him as he approached the forum. Stunned, Talbot Caesar said, “What the hell are you doing? You’re way off schedule.”

“Nay,” Marc Anthony replied, plunging his knife into Caesar’s heart. “Today is the Ides of March.”

As he drew his last breath, Talbot heard somebody calling his name.

“Hey, Talbot. Welcome to Gehenna.”

“What am I doing here?” he asked Zero.

“You ain’t here. Your soul is. Remember our deal?”

“Yeah. Damn it’s hot. Stinks too. Who are all those ugly broads?”

“Your tormentors.”

“They weren’t in the contract.”

“Wrong. Small print. You got your twenty years, as promised. Now I have your soul. Did I ever tell you how I loathe mankind? And that I’m a hyper-sadist?”

“This can’t be. I was set to wipe out Marc Anthony with a preemptive strike. I can’t figure how he got me first.”

“Maybe somebody tipped him off,” Zero said, grinning fiendishly. “Well, no matter. You’re mine.”

“Wait! You said for a dollar I could be brought back to life.”

“True. Got one?”

“Sure.” Talbot said, reaching into his toga.

“A U.S. dollar, not your worthless Roman coins,” Zero said, and snapped his fingers.

The tormenting entities crowded around Talbot and, grabbing at whatever parts of him they could reach, they pulled him down into one of their many gigantic flaming pits.

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