Back in Time

Here's a spooky treat for everyone, a grim, time travelling collaboration with Visceral Stories!

After purchasing a kid's toy from a vintage comic book, Zach is amazed to learn that the device actually works as intended! But all is not as it seems. Now trapped in a home hell-bent on finding its owner, Zach fears all of that lost time is catching up with him with no way back. Then again, does he want to?

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Mortem Post was a relatively small comic book publisher back in the day. It was a subsidiary of Whitton Press, one of the largest publishing companies worldwide, and was best known for its horror anthology stories and science fiction serials. It started in 1957 with Movie Monster Menagerie, made to test the waters on whether the classic monsters were still viable. It was such a resounding success, it even required a second print to keep up with demand. So it began. With simple names like Scary and Macabre, paired with cover images considered scandalous for the time, Mortem quickly became the name of horror comics. 

It led the pack for decades, inspiring the likes of Cronenberg, Raimi, and Del Toro. However, after the founder retired in the 80s, sales took a nosedive, and Mortem Post was no more. It was ultimately absorbed into its family company, while the assets were auctioned off to other publishers, most of which didn't make it to the new millennium. Sure, you might see Draculiera pop up as a legacy character in a DC Pride special, or The Creep From The Grave as a playable character in Dead By Daylight. But while Whitton Press is still on everyone's lips, Mortem Post was all but forgotten these days.

Which is what truly intrigued Zach as he fell down the rabbit hole of old school comics. He'd always been a fan. Who didn't like Marvel? But he'd never read any issues older than himself until the past year as some escapism from the real world. It wasn’t like he hated where he was at in life, but it would be a fallacy to say he enjoyed his current situation. With a disdain for school, a boring yet simple part-time job as a cashier, and no real desire to go to college, he felt trapped. It felt like he was going through the motions of becoming a young adult - doing things not out of interest, but instead out of obligation and societal expectation. 

These thoughts danced around in his head as he flipped through one of his vintage Macabre comics, sitting on a futon surrounded by dozens of superhero figurines and memorabilia. He had a whole shelf full of Macabre Comics by now - so many in fact, that he was still trying to finish reading them all. At least his comic collection and enjoyment of video games provided him some joy and some reprieve from a world where everyone expected him to be thinking about his future.

Zach sat in silence, occasionally brushing his long blonde bangs from his forehead while he intently read about a zombie uprising.  Despite its groundbreaking advancements in horror fiction for its time, the stories were pretty camp by today's standards. The black & white artwork, made to avoid the Comics Code Authority, meant the gore was suggestive at best.

As he turned the page, an advertisement caught his attention. In bold pop art letters, the words “TIME TRAVELLING DEVICE” exploded off the paper. There was a four-panel strip of kids using it to visit the age of the dinosaurs, followed by an idealistic future. The zany visuals and hyperbole made him chuckle. These kinds of ads always popped up in these retro comics. X-ray specs that didn't work. Sea monkeys in underwater kingdoms that were actually microscopic shrimps. He didn't even think those handheld pies were as good as Spider-Man claimed.

Usually, he glazed over the information, but this one caught his eye. Something about the device seemed peculiar. It was an object resembling a hybrid between a pager and a first gen iPhone, placed dead center as the focal point of the page, surrounded by additional text bubbles stating the words “WOW!” "REALLY WORKS!” and “ONLY $1 USD!”

Advertisements like these were usually exaggerated in both claims and art style. But it almost looked like the device had a touchscreen. A quick online search showed it was theoretically possible, touchscreens were invented in the mid-sixties. But being used on hokey kids toys? And just for a dollar? That seemed absurd. Even adjusted for inflation, a device with that kind of tech wouldn't be that cheap, even in this day and age. It had to be a scam, like all the other retro ads of the time. Yet the longer he stared at this strange advertisement, the more compelled he felt by it. Hell, it even had an attached coupon you could cut out and send in the mail. Zach rolled his eyes and smirked. The company had likely gone bust decades ago. But what if they hadn't? He had to at least see what kind of cruddy $1 device he'd receive. Who knew, maybe it'd be a pretty cool relic of the 60s and actually be worth something.

So Zach photocopied the page, he couldn't bring himself to cut up one of his vintage comics. Then he filled out his name and address on the coupon, stuck it in an envelope with a crumpled dollar bill, and sent it out into the wild. It was a fun distraction from his actual problems, and maybe it'd be a fun story to tell at the bar.

Days passed, and that insignificant letter was all but forgotten. That is, until Zach opened the door to a small package tucked into his mailbox. It was slightly bigger than palm sized, and the brown paper had a stamp on it. Chronovision Enterprises. His heart skipped a beat. There was no way, it wasn't possible!

He wasted no time ripping into the paper, uncovering a kitschy, brightly-colored box that wouldn't have looked out of place on the toy aisle. Incredulously, he opened the box, and pulled out a rectangular block the size of his phone. There was a grey screen on one side of the box, presumably the interface, and a singular on/off button on the top. Little stars, atoms, and swirls decorated the outside.

Zach was already skeptical, and the two AA batteries, which weren't included by the way, pretty much sealed the deal. Once he stuck those in, the screen flickered into life. It was a simple interface, with an option to travel to the past or the future. He wasn't ready to see what his future held, so he tapped on the past option. He was genuinely surprised when the screen actually responded to his touch. It flickered, then said ENTER YEAR: with a blinking dash.

His eyes flicked over to his growing comics collection. So many vintage issues from the sixties. It was an iconic era. The Beatles, Elvis, Woodstock, all culminating in the moon landing. It was also an age of troubles, and war. But then, what else is new? It did bring about the age of the counter-culture. Of protests against the Vietnam war, apartheid in South Africa, the rise of Civil Rights in the USA. 

It was also when Mortem Post began publishing its iconic Scary and Macabre magazines. Intrigued, Zach grabbed the issue he'd initially found the advertisement inside. There was a gruff executioner on the front, axe held high as a gorgeous, scantily clad woman struggled with her bonds. Macabre Issue #18, published in October 1966... Zach stroked his bristly chin. It was a fine year. A Man For All Seasons swept the awards. Star Trek made its big debut. The Beatles claimed they were bigger than Jesus. 

Not that any of this was real anyway, Zach mused to himself. But given the minuscule likelihood that it was? Using the number pad, he entered the year 1966. There was a brief pause before the screen flickered once more. Now there were options for how he wanted to proceed into the past. He flicked through the options. Tourist, archeologist, resident, camouflage, the labels didn't make much sense to him. A brief look in the box procured no instruction manual. In the end, he settled on the full immersion option. If he was traveling to the past, he didn't want to stick out like a sore thumb, right?

Suspending disbelief, Zach pressed the button on the device. Nothing happened for a few moments until the remote suddenly buzzed to life with the cryptic words “PLEASE WAIT. LOCATION CONFIGURATING” appearing on the screen. “Huh…weird way to put it,” Zach remarked. As skeptical as he was, part of him deep down wondered if time travel really was possible. The prospect of it was so intriguing, but there was no way it could actually happen. 

Zach jolted upright as a crackling sound abruptly filled the room. He spun on his heel and gazed at the flat-screen TV mounted on the wall which had started to compress into itself. “What the...” he asked breathlessly as the screen shrunk down in size and bounced off the wall. A wooden brown exterior formed around the screen as it fell, where it landed with a faint thud on the four tiny legs that had sprouted from the bottom. The screen crackled with static as a few knobs materialized across its right side, ready to be used. “Whoa,” Zach gasped, an excited grin appearing on his face. “Is  this really happening?” 

As if in response, the couch cushions seemed to vibrate beneath Zach’s butt. Startled, he leapt up and was taken aback as a new unprecedented sight befell him. His decaying leather futon, a cheap online purchase from years ago, was morphing into something entirely different. First, the two small armrests of the couch squeezed closer together, shortening it from five feet to a mere twenty inches across. The two broad cushions fused together, forming one mega cushion the size of a large pillow. It looked as soft as one too. 

The back of the undersized couch popped upward and unfurled to reveal a much taller pillowy cushion, bringing the couch’s likeness closer to that of a chair. Simultaneously, the ratty black leather not only smoothened out, but also softened as it brightened into a dark brownish-blue color, the hardy material morphing into a vintage tweed. Most unusually, two large impressions began to press down into the new textile, giving it the impression of two massive butt cheeks. Zach couldn’t help but snicker. Whoever lived here must’ve had such a fat ass. 

As if to make up for losing some precious seating, a stool that Zach used to keep clean laundry off the floor vibrated and shot outwards horizontally. The pile of clothes atop it were absorbed into its growing mass, forming new cushions and upholstery for the brand new fabric loveseat that aligned itself with the opposing window. Unlike the armchair, this loveseat showed very little sign of usage, nary a stain or indent in sight.

The lamp next to the armchair grew much larger, gaining a long, thin base and an ornate petal shaped shade. The chunky side table it originally stood on slid to the center of the room, expanding to become a low coffee table. Cheap IKEA cabinets filled with video games and collectable figurines found themselves replaced with heavy ornate bookshelves stuffed to the brim with volumes of intimidating reading. Even the walls got in on the act, as rolls of vintage ruffled wallpaper covered the bland white paint, followed by several extravagant paintings being hung in place. This all culminated in the hardwood floor sprouting a shaggy green carpet that encompassed the entire room.

Zach paced around the newly transformed room in awe. Had he really done it? Had that remote actually allowed him to travel back in time, presumably to the same point on Earth where his apartment now stood? Maybe it was his imagination, but this room actually seemed bigger. The peculiar amount of space that separated each piece of furniture added to the illusion. Whoever lived here certainly preferred to keep things tidy.

Zach picked up the remote, which still had a loading circle flickering on its screen. It was the only thing in the room that hadn't devolved. Then again, it was already from the sixties.

He took a cursory glance outside of the window. His familiar view of tall buildings of glass and steel was drastically altered. His home was now at ground level, within a small cul-de-sac of Victorian-style brick houses. Zach vaguely recalled his apartment block was built a decade prior to him moving in. The whole area had been redeveloped as the city limits expanded out to the suburbs, bringing the office blocks and modernist skyscrapers along with it. To think this cozy, sleepy hub of the country would be torn down and replaced within the next few decades… It was appalling to his brain.

But he'd spent enough time gawking outside his living room window. It was time to finally explore this brand new world of his. Zach reached for the door handle and felt a mild shock in his hand. "Ouch! Damned static," he cursed aloud. He tried again. This time, no shock. Yet the door wouldn't budge. It was like he'd been locked in. So he tried the window. Again, the window wouldn't budge. He was trapped.

Muttering under his breath, Zach grabbed his remote once more and looked at the screen. The loading circle was still there, but now it was joined by a new message. "CAUTION! UNABLE TO LEAVE PREMISES UNTIL FULL IMMERSION HAS BEEN ACHIEVED!" He frowned at the screen. The remote was why he couldn't leave? He didn't know why he was surprised, it had altered his entire living space. But what else was there left to change?

The answer came sooner rather than later. A brief movement out of the corner of his eyes led Zach to raise his right arm just as his coveted smartwatch finished morphing into a flashy golden wristwatch. "What the... Hey, that was a birthday present!" 

As he reached out to stroke a finger across the darkened leather strap, a ticklish feeling at his elbows caught his attention. The sleeves of his shirt - a black short-sleeved graphic tee, adorned with an old-school drawing of Batman and Robin - were stretching downward, reaching his forearms with no intent on stopping. Zach flailed his arms in a vain attempt to stop the crawl, only causing the sleeves to unspool all the way down to his wrists. Two shirt cuffs promptly appeared with a fwoosh. This new material bore little resemblance to the cheap cotton of his graphic tee. Instead, it was a fresh white that appeared to be bleeding into to the rest of the shirt, sapping it of darkness. 

“What the hell…” Zach sputtered. He watched in horror as that new glossy fabric corrupted his graphic tee. Batman and Robin’s bright colors quickly de-saturated, their cartoon outlines promptly smothered by the wallowing sea of grey. Shinier than pure cotton, the new textile was comfortable and almost more breathable in a way. Long shirttails descended from above Zach’s butt, giving it a cheeky tickle. Frustrated, he made a grab for it, but the clothing had a mind of its own. It hoisted itself up in one smooth motion and began tucking itself in all around his waist. 

Zach lunged again at the fabric, but this time his hand instead collided with…pant loops? A ring of them had appeared around his thin waist, their black color clashing severely with his khaki shorts. Like his shirt sleeves, his shorts promptly underwent the same unusual metamorphosis whereupon more textile magically unraveled down from above his knees to below them with no end in sight. Long, vertical white lines embedded themselves all around the lengthening shorts. The fabric came alive at this - it vibrated slightly and started to refine itself into a different textile entirely. Obsidian-colored silk materialized around the new pinstripes, allowing them to swish more elegantly with his movements. 

It wasn't until the textile began to tickle at Zach's calves that he truly noticed their alteration; he'd been too busy fussing over his self-tucking shirt. "Pants too?!" he squealed and began kicking his legs in disgust. This action did little to stop the inevitable. After a few kicks, two rolls of marvelous sable silk unraveled beautifully, filling the room with a faint gust of wind that nearly made Zach topple over. When he found his bearings once more, he was greeted by two oversized black tubes of silk around his legs so baggy that they completely swallowed their definition up. His shorts had been fashioned into a pair of black pants, and comfy ones at that too. They looked cartoonishly big on him and their circumference completely dwarfed his slender legs. They rode high too, resting around his navel rather than his waistline. Zach dropped his arms in defeat. He looked like a kid wearing his dad’s suit. 

By now, the final remnants of Robin and Batman’s silhouettes were swiftly enveloped by the murky grey fabric of his new shirt. Then in a few brief seconds, the fabric bleached itself to a resplendent ivory white that seemed to shine in the dim light. Although he was perplexed, there was no denying that the fabric felt nice against his youthful skin. So soft and snug. Almost like velvet. Two metallic dots appeared on the ends of both of his new chunky sleeves. Were those cufflinks? 

For a few moments, he curiously moved his arms around, inspecting how his new broadcloth shirt hugged his skinny figure. Despite feeling a bit tight around his upper body, it still maintained a level of comfort and mobility. He leered down at his shiny watch, its shimmer taunting him with its maturity, but before he could inspect further, something brushed up against his neck. The next second, a stiff shirt collar flared outward and neatly folded into a sharp crease that shielded Zach’s skinny neck. He cringed as his long rock n' roller hair rested awkwardly on his new collar. 

“Why is this happening?” He grunted and tried to loosen his collar. However a rapidly-materializing line of shirt buttons thwarted his plan. In succession, they firmly secured his pristine white dress shirt to his lanky figure. His shirt collar clung uncomfortably close to his neck, making him feel more claustrophobic than ever. There was something lightly bobbing against his Adam’s apple as he gulped. Zach could hardly crane his neck down to see it, but a new soft bow-tie was neatly fettering itself to his shirt collar. It was a dull, rusted shade of mahogany, nothing at all that a young 26 year old like himself would wear. “Ngh, get this offa me!” he protested, tugging on his new bow tie with disdain. 

There was a peculiar breeze around his neck. Zach reached back instinctively, his eyes widening. "Wait, nonono!" He cried as he could feel his overgrown hair being snipped away by some invisible force. He tugged on his locks, trying to keep them from getting any shorter to no avail. Within seconds, his rock n' roller hairstyle had been replaced with a short and simple buzz cut. He ruffled the back of his head, wincing as he felt the short bristles dig into his palm. Months of growing it out, and perfecting his regime, gone in an instant.

Then to add further insult to injury, he felt that breeze briefly across his face. He reached up to touch his cheeks and could feel the once long bristles rapidly dwindling away into his skin. In a matter of seconds, he’d become clean-shaven. "Come on, man," he whined. "I look like a baby without the scruff..."

Taking a look in the mirror by the front door, he unconsciously straightened his bow tie with a frown. "I thought the sixties was all about beatniks and hippies," he grumbled aloud. He tugged on the cuffs of his shirt, held together by brushed bronze cufflinks, and sighed. "So why do I look like I'm going to church..."

While this sudden, undesirable change in look had thrown Zach for a loop, he was at least partially to blame for choosing to immerse himself in the era. But still, something didn't seem quite right. Not wanting to waste any more time in this stranger's home, he strode up to the front door and confidently yanked on the handle. It didn't budge. He sighed in exasperation. What else was there to change?!

An idea struck him. He hadn't tried the door leading to the hallway. Maybe this place had a back yard that he could sneak out of. He crossed the room, and placed a hand on the handle, gingerly turning it and, with an eerie creak, the door swung open.

The hallway was much like the one in his apartment - a short corridor that led straight into the kitchen. On the left was his bedroom, on the right was the bathroom. He was in a hurry, but he couldn't help but stop and gaze at the ever shifting structure around him. It appeared the home hadn't finished its transition to the past. The walls had taken on a gaudish green wallpaper, framed photos dotted along its length. The one directly next to him depicted a large family reunion, an outdoor barbecue of sorts, with multiple generations gathered together underneath a handwritten banner tied between two tree trunks. INDEPENDENCE DAY REUNION '66. Zach tapped his shaved chin in awe, to think this depicted something so recent and yet so far in his own past. He wondered which of the beaming faces lived in this place, and which of them were still alive in his present.

Eventually, he tore himself away from the picture and trotted down the hallway. However, he noticed it was promptly accompanied by a discernible "click-clack" noise. "What now," he grumbled as he looked down. Zach's jaw dropped. His bare feet had been encompassed by a glossy black, tough substance. He was just in time to watch the finalization of their metamorphosis. Gone were his ankle-length athletic white socks and in their place stood a pair of shiny black leather loafers. A ticklish feeling in his calves alerted him to the fact that his socks were changing too. A liquid nylon crawled up his skinny legs, sending a chill up his spine. The 24 inch socks reached mid-shin before coming to a halt, two metallic sock garters materialized to hold them in place.

Zach stopped dead in his tracks, his leather shoes clacking in response. Filled with vitriol, he studied the new addition to his tacky, dweebish wardrobe. He shook his legs and felt the sock garters tighten a little more around them as he did. And what was up with his high-waisted dress pants? They were so tight that they made him feel like his butt was in a push-up bra. He squirmed uncomfortably as he pushed the door to the kitchen open, gawking as he caught sight of what lay behind.

"Okay, now this is different," Zach said as he entered what used to be his kitchen. It had been replaced with a warm, comfy dining room. There was a door further back, along with slated blinds covering a wide pass-through window that likely led into the kitchen proper. He was mildly impressed with the layout. There used to be barely enough room to swing a cat, and now it looked to be twice the size at least. Dark wooden cabinets lined with tchotchkes and fine china lined the bold red walls, while a solid oak dining table sat in the dead center. It was large enough to seat six people, with accompanying seats, although it didn't appear to be used by that many people given the sole place mat and coaster at the head.

The chair at the head of the table was more akin to a throne compared to the others. It had a high back, and a plush emerald green cushion that looked very well lived in. Zach couldn't help himself. He pulled the chair back, finding it surprisingly light given its size, and settled himself into the pseudo-throne. It was as comfortable as he imagined it would be. Whoever owned this place had good taste. Just look at the dining table, it was built to last. He could practically imagine the meals served in this very room over the years. Thanksgiving turkeys and Easter hams. Pot roasts and casseroles. The thought alone made his stomach grumble. He patted it with a chuckle. "Don't worry," he told it. "We'll get you some grub soon enough."

His stomach ignored him, growling impatiently. Zach frowned as stroked it absent-mindedly. Why was he so hungry? He had eaten a hearty lunch before he received the device... As he removed his palm, a distinct pudge began to form around his midsection, pushing up against his shirt. When he stood back up, Zach noticed the slight bulging of his waistline, and cocked his head. That lunch must have been heartier than he remembered if it had made him bloat like this. And still, he felt like he'd been fasting for a week. Perhaps time travel messes with your body clock. Perhaps the owner of this house wouldn't mind him taking a few snacks out of the fridge...

Compared to the dining room, the kitchen was rather quaint with its linoleum flooring, warm wooden cabinets, and corn cob curtains. There was no back door to the small patio outside, he noted. There was also a lack of the everyday gadgets he took for granted. No air fryer, no espresso machine, not even a microwave or dishwasher. Only an oven with a gas stove, and a large refrigerator stood out to him. It felt outdated even for the sixties. Yet in a way, it reminded him of his grandparents' kitchen. It was weird to think they were out there in the world right now, only as little kids. He was much older than them now. What would happen if he somehow bumped into them, he wondered.

His stomach gurgled as if to remind him why he entered the kitchen in the first place. So he walked up to the fridge and opened the door. Zach’s jaw nearly hit the floor when he saw the array of decadent meals resting on each level of this refrigerator. Succulent ham hocks, paté, and smoked salmon occupied the left side while a large, old-fashioned milk bottle, a block of havarti cheese, and a drawer of extravagant condiments occupied the right. But that was nothing compared to the sight of a row of scrumptious desserts. Lemon icebox cake, hand-whipped cream, and imported raspberry and apricot preserves had him salivating like a waterfall, however it was a broad rectangular box of rich African chocolates that he found impossible to resist. It was only a few chocolates, he tried to reason. But before he knew it, he’d scarfed down the entire box. By the time Zach even realized what he was doing, he’d already started snacking on a leftover piece of grasshopper pie. 

Dopamine rushed through his system as he ravished through the succulent treats. Mouth-watering cane sugars imported from around the world inundated his taste buds. He'd never tasted anything so scrumptious. But by the time he'd grabbed a bowl of ambrosia salad in the back of the fridge, he started to feel sluggish. The growling from his stomach had finally ceased. In its place was a peculiar bloating feeling in his gut. Taking this as a sign to quit invading this stranger's fridge, Zach regrettably pulled himself away from the feast. Walking out of the marvelous kitchen, his speedy pace dwindled to a leisurely saunter. That gluttonous exploit had really taken some energy out of him.

There was a deep rumbling in his belly that caused his entire body to vibrate. Nervously, he shifted his balance uncomfortably as his skin prickled from a mounting heat. Then it happened. Thick, gelatinous fat began to pour into Zach's skinny body from all directions. The first thing he noticed were his arms and legs swelling up like balloons. Simultaneously, his stomach was developing a brand new curvature to it.

"What the fuck," he cried, panic arising in his crackly voice. Repulsion crept in too as his slender frame once ideal for long runs was buoyed down by excess weight. 

Luckily, his clothing appeared to have a mind of its own as it grew in unison with his swelling mass. His butt and belly were the most affected. Simultaneously, they expanded in opposite directions, giving him a far more plump shape. What started as measly pudge quickly morphed into tangible corpulence.  

“Whuh, I...ughhh," he grunted sluggishly, overcome by a mixture of confusion and lethargy, as his new belly forced him to reposition himself. His butt began to strain the black fabric of his suit pants, compelling Zach to spread his skinny legs wider, so as to not plop to the ground. He looked down in shock, completely floored that he'd gained a belly in a matter of seconds. It wasn't a small one either. In no time, it reached the size of a beach ball with no intent of stopping. The change rippled up to his pecs, or lack thereof, as gallons of fat began to fill them too. His shoulders broadened as his pectoral muscles sagged to his sides. Miraculously though, his white shirt buttons held strong, completely sealing his gelatinous fat from the world. He wanted to be more angry, but instead he was starting to feel fatigued.

Zach yawned and indignance washed over him. “Wha... Why do I feel tired?” he bemoaned. Fat poured through the young man like a soft serve machine, endowing him with round love-handles while his chest rested above a belly that was quickly becoming his most prominent body part. His stomach grew so large that it developed an overhang and his fat limply drooped over his pants, partially concealing them. He didn't even know it was possible to have a belly this egregiously large. Of course, he’d seen larger men in his life, but he’d never seen one as big as he was getting. Maybe his old band teacher from high school, but weirdly enough, that memory was getting fuzzy. To be fair, it was hard to focus on anything other than the yoga ball belly that was protruding from him. 

Zach shook his head and focused on the disorientating yet tangible feelings around him. Like how  the crisp collar of his dress shirt felt around his neck or how snug his pants felt around his lower body. He had worried his new heft would force his pants down, but thankfully, his clothes wouldn't let that happen. At first, he felt a faint presence in his shoulders and before he knew it, it felt as if someone was yanking his trousers up with full force. 

If Zach was one-hundred pounds lighter, he would've flailed his arms frantically so as to not fall over, but instead he just tottered in place as a magnificent pair of black suspenders coiled around his broadening back and shoulders. They wasted no time hoisting the lip of his pants from his waistline all the way up to his navel. Zach had no opportunity to object. With two secure metallic clicks, his new suspenders secured his massive dress pants in place, only causing his belly to look even more ridiculous!

Zach grunted and tried to loosen the straps, but the suspenders felt like they were made of steel.
Or maybe he was zapped of energy. This whole experience was nothing short of draining. Oh well, at least this new, dorky apparel allowed the pressure to be alleviated from his belly. Although, it wasn't much better. Now instead of sitting on his legs, it was resting on his dick! He squirmed
in place trying to shift it away. As he did, new tingles entered his nether regions, giving Zach a mix of embarrassment and disgust.

His once meager belly now completely dominated his physique, rendering his corpulent body completely unrecognizable from his old self. His stomach would be the first thing anyone would see when he entered a room from now on. Zach wanted to cry. He didn't know how on earth this could be stopped, let alone if anyone would ever believe he was still his old self under this ridiculous bulk. There had to be a way of reversing this travesty. He racked his brain, trying to distract himself from the feeling of his chest gradually inflating like sand bags. Normally he'd check Reddit for this sort of conundrum. However, it wasn't like he even had a computer anymore. In fact, even the image of a computer was getting hazy in his mind. The idea of a combined phone and television that you could take with you anywhere. The idea of talking with another person from anywhere in the world at any time. The idea alone started to seem less plausible in his mind. Still, a resistant part of his mind knew it was true. "Nghh," he groaned, feeling the mental duress of his growth catching up to him. He was developing a sharp, acute headache. These foreign thoughts: they made him feel like he was in a dream. 

Bursting back into the hallway, Zach cringed as he felt his stomach quiver with every heavy step. "This isn't happening," he reassured himself, taking a sharp right into the bathroom.

Deep green porcelain tiles clashed with a gaudy floral wallpaper that met halfway down the wall, and a checkerboard linoleum floor completed the clashing mess. There was a toilet, obviously, with a bulky wooden lid and an empty towel rack right beside it. The sink was nothing to write home about, other than the tall mirrored cabinet above it. What was interesting was the bathtub partially hidden behind a frosted glass barrier. It was high walled with an embedded plastic seat, and a door attached to the side. Zach didn't dwell on the peculiar oddity, much more focused on his even more peculiar weight gain. He'd hoped the ordeal was some sugar-induced nightmare, but the mirror didn't lie. His face scrunched in despair as he grasped at the yoga ball sized gut that protruded from his torso.

Then he noticed something else in the mirror. He looked haggard, tired. There were slight bags under his eyes, and lines cut into his dry skin. In fact, if he didn't know any better, he'd say he looked a decade older at least... "Nope!" He cried aloud as he swung the cabinet open. "One thing at a time..."

Inside the cabinet were an array of delightful curiosities. Retro shaving cream alongside a proper razor blade he'd only ever seen in barber shops. Cologne bottles of every shape and side and bars of soap that smelled like an old folk's home. In amongst a worrying amount of medicine bottles that Zach didn't recognize, he found the antacid he desperately needed, as well as what he hoped were aspirin. With a triumphant sigh, he closed the cabinet and froze up once more. His reflection was different. He could only stare at the stranger facing him.

What he could have once attributed to over-tiredness had become alarmingly apparent; Zach was getting older. Steel gray hairs were blooming around his temples and sweeping through his close-cut hair with alarming speed. Combined with his haggard, drawn features that gave him the stern visage of a perpetually irritated man, he looked to be nearly twice his actual age. And then, to top it all off, his hairline began to recede.

He could only watch in horror as his beloved hair scattered around him like fallen leaves. Inch by inch, his hairline crept further back until he couldn't even see it without tilting his head forward. The abandoned follicles gathered in the sink before him, each more gray tinted than the last. In a final act of desperation, Zach scooped up a large clump and shoved it atop his head as if the follicles would reattach themselves. Instead, they simply slipped off his scalp and fizzled away into nothing, leaving behind a severely receded hairline. Tears formed at the corners of his eyes. 

With his crown of thin white hair, his crows feet and loose jowls, the man in the mirror looked eerily close to retirement. Zach felt a detachment from his reflection, he couldn't comprehend that old geezer was him. This had to be a trick, an optical illusion, a nightmare. Anything but the cold, hard truth that befell him.

He couldn't take it any longer. Zach turned his back to the mirror, and shuffled towards the toilet, collapsing onto its wooden lid with an almighty crash. He clenched his eyes shut and counted to 10 as he took slow, deep breaths. This would all be over soon. He didn't even care about seeing another time period anymore. He was using that remote to send him back to his present the very second he could, back to being the scrawny, scruffy, comic book loving man with a crappy job he took for granted. If it turned him back...

Zach opened his eyes with a low groan as the first thing he saw was his bulbous belly blocking half his view. Yet despite taking up the space of several men, he didn't feel constricted within the tiled sanctuary. He craned his neck to the side, locking onto the bathtub once more. He wasn't aware bathtubs with doors existed back in the sixties. Imagine having to get in one of those. Making sure it was sealed tight before you turned the tap on, then waiting for it to fill up with you inside the entire time. It sounded like a real pain in the neck. At least there was a seat inside... Hold on...

The bathtub with a door, those armchairs with the massive ass imprints, room layouts with enough space for someone large to maneuver, perhaps someone with a well-rounded, hefty build... What did the remote say again? Full immersion...? "Oh fuck," Zach mumbled under his breath. Was it possible that this wasn't a stranger's home he was trespassing in? That this was actually his home..?  He wasn't just blending into the time period, he was literally becoming a part of history! And given the current state of affairs, he didn't think it was going to end well... "Oh fuck!" He cried at the top of his lungs. "I fucked up real bad! Fuck!"

He didn't want to be an old man any more than he wanted to stay stuck in this house. "I refuse..." Zach muttered under his breath. He took a hand to his bow tie and tore it from his throat. "I refuse to let this continue..." His hands shook with rage as he fumbled with his shirt buttons until he yanked his shirt apart, buttons pinging against the bathroom tiles. "Fuck the time paradoxes! I am not being humiliated any longer!" He snapped the suspenders off of his shoulders and, with a struggle, pulled his pants off. He shook his legs as they spooled around his ankles and onto the floor. Finally, he dumped his torn shirt and jacket to the floor in triumph.

Using the hand rail he'd initially assumed was a towel rack to pull himself to his feet, Zach stood in front of the mirrored cabinets once more, hollowed eyes on his nude reflection. His perpetual tan had faded to a milky white scarred by the occasional dark blemish on his shoulders and arms, pairing with the actual surgical scar down the center of his chest. Curly white hairs sparsely scattered across his flabby moobs,  and grew even sparser across his ballooned stomach. There was no way around it. He was massive. Like a blob. Fat spilled out over his waist like custard. Still, it was certainly intriguing to be this cartoonishly large - to command attention with his cannonball of a belly. "Nngh," he hissed, not wanting to dwell on himself.

Grabbing onto his belly, Zach heaved it upwards until he was just about to see his penis peeking out, his testicles hanging low and heavy against his hammy thighs. To his surprise, his cock was stiff as a board, pushing up against the bloated blubber of a gut above it. He cringed at the sight, there was nothing horny about this situation. He was rapidly losing his youth and virility, all in some primitive AI's misguided effort to force him into a past he was never a part of. He groaned uncomfortably as all that sexual frustration rose up through his body. He didn't want to give into temptations, let alone in the state he was now. But alas, it pounded through him until he could only dwell on one single thought - give in...  

Zach sighed before he turned away from the mirror, his fat ass leaning against the sink. If he was going to do this, he didn't want to have to face that wrinkled prune. He took a deep breath before closing his eyes, and sliding his right hand down to his crotch. He kept his left hand firmly on the sink behind him, half to keep his balance, half to avoid touching any other part of his body. He wanted no reminders of his accursed form. Maybe if he focused hard enough, he could pretend he was still the strapping young man he was mere minutes ago.

He cupped his balls in his hands, feeling their weight. His inflated scrotum was merely for show, as it felt soft and squishy to the touch. He'd heard men of a certain age could develop swelling from liquid build-up around the testes. Zach grimaced, trying to put the thought behind him as he gripped onto his cock. It felt more or less the same, much to his relief. He began to pump his hand up and down his shaft, reminding himself this was out of necessity, not pleasure. He focused on his usual spank bank to at least make it feel normal, or as normal as it could with his fist and forearm whacking his belly, making it jiggle with every stroke.

As he got into the rhythm, a peculiar feeling came over him. It felt like his fist was taking shorter strides with each stroke, his pace fastening in the process. It wasn't until the tip of his penis slipped beneath the grip of his thumb that he understood what was happening. His cock was shrinking within his grasp. He was hard as ever, maybe even moreso, so it wasn't performance issues. He groaned aloud. His cock was average at best. Now he'd lost at least an inch and still it was shrinking. He had to adjust his grip as he switched from using his fist to pinching his cock between three fingers and his thumb. Swiftly followed by merely two fingers.

Despite its dwindling size, Zach was feeling hornier than ever, his careful stroking giving him a headrush. Before he knew it, he'd let go of the sink and began to grapple with his moobs, massaging the bags of fat and tickling his perky nipples. Yet still it wasn't enough to give him release.

"C'mon..." he gasped as he tried reaching his climax "I'm so close..." His head was swimming from all that pent up energy. He had resorted to squeezing the head of his cock between his forefinger and thumb, no longer able to get a proper grip on it. He wasn't even sure if he was still erect. Eventually, he felt a slick dampness against his hand. It appeared his cock had dribbled out a little bit of pre-cum, and nothing more. He turned back to the mirror with an unsatisfied sigh. "Was that it?" He gasped, his cheeks flushed red from the exertion. He caught a glimpse of his new appendage, now nothing more than a nub buried within the flabby flesh that surrounded it, alongside a bloated scrotum that would remain the only bulge in his trousers.

As if to add injury to insult, Zach barely managed to snap his hand back from his crotch as said trousers suddenly jumped back up to his waist. His arms yanked back as his shirt snaked up them and around his bloated torso, the buttons snapping back into place and his suspenders leaping over his shoulders to hoist his pants up even further. Within moments, Zach was fully dressed once more. 

"Oh no you don't," he mumbled under his breath, his face getting visibly red with anger as he reached up to undo the bow tie once more. But it wouldn't budge, no matter how hard he tugged. He tried to get his fingers beneath its velvet straps. Yet it only resulted in it tightening against his throat. Zach gasped, and leaned against the sink until the pressure subsided. With a big gulp of air, he began to cough and splutter, his jowls wobbling from the force. As he hacked big hearty coughs, his teeth clattered dangerously together. Then with a resounding, final bark, he felt something shoot out of his mouth. There was a loud clattering in the sink, and Zach looked down with dread. in the dead center of the sink were two rows of teeth bonded together with a mimicry of gum.

Zach reached into the basin with a shaky hand and lifted up what used to be his own molars. Even with his declining vision, he could see that they had been replaced by a pristine pair of dentures. Not just pristine, the gleaming white porcelain held together with hardened rubber looked healthier than his own teeth. Or rather, the teeth he used to have. His stomach turned as he opened his mouth wide to reveal a soft pink landscape with nary a white pearl in sight. He blinked tears away as he ran his tongue along the gaping, gummy ridges where his teeth used to be. All that remained was soft, slightly sensitive gum. A wasteland annihilated by poor dental hygiene.

Zach couldn't dwell on his degrading body much more. Solemnly, he tucked the dentures back into his mouth, shifting them around until they rested perfectly along his gum-line. He bared his teeth in a mockery of a smile. He could sense the dentures merely resting within his mouth rather than how weightless his teeth were before. This was it. He'd finally reached his threshold for abnormal body horror. All he wanted to do was crawl into bed and hope that he'd wake up from this living nightmare as a young man once more.

As he turned toward the door, he could swear he saw the door frame grow bigger. It looked wider than the average door frame, and he still had to squeeze uncomfortably through it. He had literally gotten too big for this world, which is why he spent most of his time cooped up at home, not that he had anywhere to go these days... Zach shivered, where had that come from?

He shuffled toward his bedroom,  his movement slow and sluggish. He felt exhausted, as if he'd been through the most intense HIIT session at the gym. Although he knew that this ragged, morbidly obese body of his had never seen the inside of a gym in its life. Even crossing the hallway from bathroom to bedroom was enough to leave him out of breath. His body was three times the weight he used to be, at least. All that crushing weight was murder on his weakened joints. It wouldn't be long before he'd need some sort of support to stand up and get around. The thought alone made his knees wobble and cry out for relief. He just about made it to the bed before his legs gave way and he collapsed onto the sturdy mattress below. With a frustrated sigh, he looked around at the room he used to call home.

Unlike the previous rooms, the layout of his bedroom was largely the same. There was a large wooden wardrobe and a chest of drawers to his left, a dresser and ornate mirror to his right, and a glamorous bonneted garner window with accompanying bench topped with cushions directly in front of him. Unsurprisingly, any signs of technology had vanished, replaced with leather-bound books and various knickknacks. His walls were lined with flowery wallpaper while the floor was covered with a soft, brown carpet. 

His king-sized bed sat squarely in the center of the room, an impressive four-post number with red velvet curtains that closed for extra privacy. His extra-firm mattress was covered with the finest of silk sheets. Not to mention a puffed-up goose feather duvet imported from Scandinavia for those cooler nights. On his bedside table was a glass of clear liquid that looked too viscous to be water. Curious, Zach slipped his dentures out of his mouth and plopped them inside, finding they fit perfectly for an overnight cleansing soak. Putting them back in, he detected a hint of mint that wasn't entirely unpleasant.

Zach flopped back onto his mattress with a wheeze, his corpulent, massive frame jiggling as he did so. He tried not to think about how that would always happen now. Like an aftershock, his stomach and gargantuan ass would always waggle anytime he had to move himself. It'd made him quite sedentary. Which wasn't a bad thing, per say. It felt good to relax most days, after all he'd lived a full-

"NGHH." he hissed through his false teeth, letting out an obnoxious whistle. He propped himself up with his elbows. A dull ache in his back reminded him that sitting up without support was quite strenuous in his condition. So using all his strength, he clung onto one of the wooden bedposts like a life preserver, cautiously maneuvering himself upright. What he initially dismissed as an unnecessary extravagance had become a source of help.

And in the grand scheme of things, a bit of opulence didn't hurt anyone. The mere fact he had this large bedroom all to himself showed just how far he'd come from when he was a precocious little scamp who had to share a room with his entire family. His parents had emigrated from Sweden as teenagers following a major famine in the country with hopes for a more prosperous life in The New World. A butcher and a seamstress, they married young and started a family. He was one of a dozen siblings, the middle child nobody expected to live to adulthood. Now here he was decades later as the final survivor.

Zach slapped a hand across his face. No! That wasn't his life! He had no siblings, let alone a dozen of them! His mom sold real estate, his dad was the floor manager of a store that sold... What were they called... The magic box with the buttonless typewriter... Bah, it didn't matter, what mattered was that this place was pushing these lies onto him!

He was a supermarket cashier, nothing more. He had no desire to work as a child, certainly not as a newsie hawking the dailies on the street corner outside his parents' inn. Nor did he save up his money for a bicycle to hand-deliver the Suffolk Star paper straight to readers' homes. That kind of innovative idea would certainly make the owner take a shine to him, and ultimately leave the paper in his trustworthy hands upon retirement. Being the boss of a favored newspaper company by the age of 20 wasn't too shabby...

"Stop it," he growled under his breath, rubbing his temples with his pudgy fingers. He didn't want to reminisce about the past, especially a past that wasn't his own. Fat poured into his neck as he did, inflating outward like a bullfrog’s sac. Zach felt his hand rest on his belly absentmindedly. He really was enormous, bigger than any man he'd ever seen before. And no matter how hard he tried, it didn't seem to be stopping.

"Got to...get out of here," Zach muttered, gazing up at the dormer window that used to be a more modern bedroom window from his time period. Not this vintage crap. As he waddled his corpulent figure to the other side of his bedroom, his resentment began to boil over. He tried the handle, but it didn't budge. "Confounded architecture," he hissed, unsure if the window was too strong or if he was too weak. No matter. "In my day, windows were actually windows. Whatever happened to a polished wood trim and respectable curtains? What kind of muttonhead decided that this blasted plastic junk was the future of construction?"

Zach's fat bobbed up and down as he caught his breath from the minimal exercise. Although he wasn't smiling, it felt kind of good to complain like that. So he continued. "And those hippies with their unshaven faces and long hair looking like a down and out. Back in President Eisenhower's day, people knew how to conduct themselves and not act like... spoiled brats!" Zach felt his legs start to tremble, but he couldn't stop. He had to let off some steam from this horrible day. "And on that, grown men ought to wear proper suits, not these scandalous slim-fitting trousers. It's undignified!"

Looking out of the closed window, he was too absorbed in his ornery rant to notice the metal rod that appeared next to him. "Not to mention those atrocious hairstyles like those Beatles wear. Are they men or are they sheepdogs? In my day, gentlemen kept their hair well above their collars." The metal rod quickly began to extend outward, first gaining metal columns that extended down like a jungle gym, then gaining a pair of small wheels that rested just in front of Zach's feet, who was too caught up in his tirade to care. Why did it feel so good to complain? And for a moment, he wondered what on earth he was talking about. He sounded like a senile old man. "In my day, men wore proper attire, and would respectfully court women. Now these hooligans are walking around, hair unkempt, skirts far too short, hideous apparel. It's completely asinine!"

Fueled by his new and oddly affirming vendetta against the youths of the era, Zach stepped back from the window and spun a bit too quick for a man of his advanced age. His knees trembled, buckling under him and instinctively, his body toppled forward for a split second before his wrinkly mitts clenched onto rubber handles. "What the..." He came back to reality for a second and was confused at how a zimmer frame had materialized in front of him. How had he not noticed? For an old man, he always told himself he was still quite sharp. Wait, old? "No! I'm not old!" Zach cried, but he was way too far gone to stop that. He was fatter and older than anyone in his family by far. He didn’t like it. He also didn’t like that he was starting to lapse into it.

He tried his best to stand without his walker, but a dull ache in his lower back prevented him from doing so. He crouched forward even more, pushing his big fleshy butt out that strained the seams of his dress pants behind him. He coughed and his entire body shook like jelly, but this time he didn’t seem to notice. He was already getting used to the gargantuan mass he'd been cursed to carry. “Eh, what is this now?” he bemoaned, his voice getting deeper and more crackly than before. “I don’t need no stinkin’ walker!” A permanent croakiness embedded into his throat brought on from decades of smoking. That had to have cost a lot of money, he thought, yet the longer he pondered, the more feasible it seemed. 

Money hadn’t been a problem for him in decades. He couldn’t remember how he’d accrued it, but maybe that would come to him soon enough. After all, this house was a paradise for an old man like himself. Memories of spending his retirement years in this quaint cottage quickly replaced those of living in an apartment where he  toiled over dead end jobs and scrounged pennies to scrape by. Zach laughed at the thought. There was no way a wealthy man like himself would struggle with that. And the longer he thought about it, the more inviting it seemed to be this geriatric man. Sure, he was losing his perfect hearing and vision, his dick was practically non-functional, and he couldn't even stand without assistance. But those negative thoughts were slowly getting drowned out and rewired into feelings of accomplishment. It felt incredible, he had to admit. 

He was shaken out of this stupor by a sudden noise. A shrill ringing  that Zach felt like he'd heard a million times in his life. It was someone ringing the doorbell. He'd gotten an extra loud one installed. At his age, he could sleep through anything. That was a nice perk of getting old. At least the sleep was always nice. 

Hold on... If the doorbell was ringing, then that meant there was someone at the door. Which meant he'd have to open the door to let them in. Which meant he could finally escape this joint! The doorbell rang once more, a little longer than before. "Yeah, yeah, I'm coming," Zach griped, sluggishly pushing his walker out of his bedroom and towards his front door. People today, so impatient. They knew he couldn't move as fast as he used to, he was getting on in years, after all. How many, he wasn't sure. But he could feel every single one of them in his aching bones

Zach's face tingled as he walked. It started gradually as a few subtle changes permeated his face - his ears grew a little bigger, his nose grew a little more bulbous, his lips became a little less puckered and thinner. Next, a mosaic of wrinkles began to crack not only his face, but his entire body. His fatter chin rested on his airplane pillow shaped neck as decades of aging swirled into his once youthful face, endowing him with a much more intimidating and stern one. The vestiges of his once youthful head of hair that hadn't already turned white promptly resolved that issue while also retreating his receded hairline even further back from his forehead. Any remaining straggly chin hairs were swiftly eliminated. But it wasn't like a man of his age wanted to grow any sort of beard anyway. He liked to stay clean-shaven, it did him good to have some sort of daily ritual in his life. And that's what he loved. It wasn't like his obese, aged frame could do much of anything else.

Fuck, he had to be a pretty old man if that was the case. His face continued its metamorphosis as he pondered this quandary, aging him up and up and up, degrading his features from distinguished to utterly geriatric. His bone structure not only weakened, it transformed to portray a new elderly man brought into existence at Zach's expense. His once solid jawline vanished beneath a layer of fat, his cheekbones shifted positions while his cheeks grew looser and rounder and thick horizontal lines appeared on his forehead. It didn't feel incredible, but it felt oddly correct, and that at least was a little comforting.

As Zach trudged through his hall, his nervous, unsure feelings were gradually dissipating. It made sense that he was a wise old man. He fit the part. And for a senior, he sure lived a luxurious life, fueled by money from the savvy business decisions he'd made in his youth. What started as a local newspaper had spun out into all kinds of publishing ventures. News and tabloids, magazines and novels, cook books and text books, what could be published was handled by his company and helped make it a household name... What was it called again?

Finally reaching the front door, Zach twisted the doorknob and opened it to see...a young man? He looked vaguely familiar - a tall, handsome man in a slim-fitted suit that reeked of fortune. He had a tidy haircut with a couple inches of length all around, plus bangs that slightly hung over his forehead, ever so casually swept to the side. The modern businessman's standard. But it was far too shaggy for Zach's tastes. If a man didn't have a short back and sides, then he was as uncouth as those Beatnik musicians with their moptops akin to a helmet made of hair in his eyes. He had a good mind to scold him for not visiting a barbershop recently, not to mention getting rid of that caterpillar above his upper lip. Back in his day, men had pencil-thin mustaches trimmed to perfection. Not those unruly chevrons. He held a leather briefcase in one hand, real leather. Not that awful synthetic crap those DuPont fools were trying to push onto the masses. 

The man flashed a friendly smile. "Thank goodness, I was getting worried. It's not like you to take your time," he said as he entered the home and swung the door back. 

Zach reacted too late, the door closing behind the stranger. He rattled the door knob. Locked. Of course. He sighed and grumbled "whozat now?" as the stranger made himself comfortable on the sofa.The nerve of this guy, just waltzing in like he owned the joint.

"It's me, Joseph," the man replied with a knowing shake of the head. "You've got your glasses on your head again."

Zach reached up, and felt the thick-rimmed spectacles perched on his bald scalp, the arms attached to a bead chain that wrapped around his neck. He popped them on the bridge of his nose and the world came back into sharp definition. He hadn't realised just how blind he was without them. He had simply walked through the house by instinct, an innate knowledge of his home's layout. The realisation made him a little queasy.

Turning back to Joseph, he still had no idea who this familiar stranger was. He trudged back to his armchair, inch by inch, trying to recall where he'd seen that face. Now that he had his glasses on, he noticed that the young man wasn't quite so young. There were dark circles under his eyes, and the finest cracks in his otherwise bright skin, signalling the wears and tears of everyday life. Up close, he could even see gray hairs dusting his sideburns and upper lip. This man had to be forty, at least. Maybe not so young, just young compared to himself. At his age, the guy was practically a baby. At his age... Just what was that again...

"Granddad?" Zach snapped his head quickly toward the man, who was now in the process of opening his briefcase. "Are you feeling okay? You've barely said a single word since I arrived, not even a barbershop jibe."

"Just dandy," Zach spat in irritation. "What was that you just called me?"

 "Uhm, granddad?" 

“That can't possibly be right," Zach replied under his breath, stomping slowly with his walker. There was no doubt he could have been a grandfather now, but to this guy? Why, if it were true, then he himself would have to be in his eighties. He knew he was getting on in years but eighty? That wasn't just old, it was ancient. It was life expectancy exceeding. It would have been impressive if he weren't the one with one foot in the grave. 

The thought sent shudders through his body, creeping his age up once more. The weight of all that life piled onto his shoulders, bending his spine and sending his center of gravity forward until he was slouched even further over his walker with a distinct hump. His craggy wrinkles deepened in his sagging skin, cracks spilling out from his eyes, scarring his expansive forehead, and crumpling his limbs like waste paper. A wave of faint brown splotches dotted across his bare hands and blemished his bald head. Ages spots that signaled a life of sun damage gradually gained over the decades. Each spot providing more proof of his advanced age as much as his wrinkled skin, hunched back, and what remained of his bleached white hair.

His 'grandson' offered a pity smile as Zach's pace slowed, his body weakened from aging yet another decade into his eighties. Even lifting that lightweight walker was becoming a chore, let alone all of that excess blubber weighing him down. "Come, sit," Joseph kindly gestured to the chair, standing up to offer to help him sit down.

Zach glared at the burgundy leather armchair and he swore as he looked at it, two deep impressions deflated the seat cushion tremendously. It must've been the favorite chair of someone with a gargantuan rump. Who loved the chair because of how wide it was. Whose plump figure would always spill out of it. Someone like him… "No, no, I can stand," he dismissed, shaking his head clear of that thought.

"Well, alright… I have the advance copies of next week's comics," Joseph said as he pulled out a wad of paper from his briefcase. A grown man carrying comics in his briefcase, what had this world come to. While Zach had retired from the business over twenty years ago - Fuck, that was nearly as old as he was before this whole ordeal even began - his family still liked to keep him in the loop and share what their side of the company was doing and get his opinions.

His grandson's venture was these silly comic books, a little lowbrow for his tastes but it brought in the money. Apparently, they were very successful. Why, back when he was a young lad starting out in the industry, he'd made the wise idea to expand the business from merely newspapers to comics and pulp novels. That one decision was the beginnings of his publishing empire, and led to him becoming one of the richest men on the east coast by the end of the Roaring Twenties. Of course, then came the Great Depression. His was one of the few companies to retain their entire staff in those tough times, albeit at reduced pay. He wasn't running a charity, after all. He even took a pay cut if it meant he could keep the lights on. Thankfully, even the poor needed entertainment to keep their minds off of the worst of times...

Zach rubbed his temples once more. The memories were coming in thick and fast now, and it seemed almost futile to resist. He needed something to take his mind off of it. He grabbed the first comic from the pile and held it up. Macabre issue #18. Something nipped at his brain, he recognised the cover but couldn't place why. It was unlike anything he'd witnessed before. A garish image of a brutish, muscle-bound man robed in black and welding a large axe. At his feet was a beautiful woman in naught but her underwear, her hands bound together with chains and tears streaming down her face. He tossed it aside, horrified to have even held such a thing. "You can't put smut like that on the shelves," he spat dismissively. "That woman is practically nude!"

"What can I say, sex sells," Joseph said with a passive shrug. "We didn't become the best-selling horror comic book series because of the gore, I'll tell you that." Zach crossed his arms with a grumble. If they never listened to his criticism, why even bother asking for his opinion?

He picked up the next comic which was just as gruesome as the last, but his eye fell on the issue date - October 1966. That was the current year, right? His memories of learning in the 21st century about the sixties in school of pushing societal boundaries, of a vehement challenge to the status quo, of the Flower Power movement - they were all getting inverted on themselves. Even though his overflowing body said otherwise, he knew the memories of him in a classroom were erroneous. The sixties were still unfolding although the new hippie movement was utterly atrocious. He hadn't stepped foot in a school since the last century… The 1800s? Wow, that truly felt like a lifetime ago. It was pretty cool to think about all of the things he'd done in over eight decades. Still, a tiny part of him clung onto the truth. He wasn’t some old codger, eating decadent meals and living in a luxurious retirement estate. No, he had to stop this full immersion before it was too late.

"Listen, I need to tell you something, and you mustn't judge me," Zach started. "Gosh, I'm going to sound doolally, but I'm not your grandfather." Joseph leaned forward but didn't say anything. So he continued, "I mean, physically I am. Biologically. But in my head? My mind? I'm an entirely different person. My real name is Zzzz... Iszzz..." He paused. He knew his name, he had to know his name, it was his name! His grandson had cocked his head, losing interest. He had to improvise! "Iszzzn't important, but what is important is that I am from sixty years in the future. The distant twenty-first century!"

"Are you sure you haven't been reading our comics? That sounds like one of Frank's ideas."

"I can prove it!" He fumbled with his pockets until he found that peculiar rectangle that had gotten him into this mess. "Aha, here it is! A time traveling device!" He tossed it over to Joseph who looked it over with mild interest.

"I suppose you do lose track of time when watching the television," he said with a slight chuckle as he held up the TV remote. "What was it this time? Lost in Space? The Twilight Zone? I hear that new Star Trek show is a rollicking good time. My boy Petey was raving about it the other day." 

The elderly man's heart sank. He was sure he had the device on him, he didn't want to leave it out of his sight! Unless that immersive mode also extended to the device... No, no, that was absurd. It was from this era. How else was he supposed to get back to the future? The long way? He would be lucky to make it to the end of the year in his current condition. He wouldn't even get to see man land on the moon... No, he must have left it in a different room during the unfolding chaos. When this jokester leaves him alone, he'll do a proper search. He just had to play along.

"You know full well that I don't watch that cockamamie science fiction nonsense!" The old man spluttered. "Life is bothersome enough without throwing space travel into the mix. Back in my day, we didn't even-"

"-Even have electricity in your home," Joseph interrupted as if he'd had this conversation before. "You had to read by candlelight and wash your clothes by hand. God forbid the world moves forward and leaves Old Mortimer behind."

"You don't have to mock me," the old man sniffed. He used to be at the forefront of technology. Why, Whitton Press wouldn't be the household name it was today if he hadn't... Hold on, The Whitton Press? That was his company?! They were behind his favorite comics! Or rather, one of its branches was. Mortem Post. As well as the obvious play on postmortem, the CEO of the time used to joke that he named it in honor of his grandfather. The founder of Whitton Press. Which must mean he was...

Mortimer gulped. This was happening too fast. Forget waiting, he had to find that doohickey now while he could still recall what it was. But his knees were beginning to feel the three hundred odd pounds and eighty-odd years of his already weakened body. His walking frame could only do so much to support him. He eyed the ragged armchair lovingly dented by his own rump over the years. Its comforting embrace called out to him. It would be nice to sit and relax for just a moment. Increasingly, it became all he could think about.

By the time he realized it, he was already lowering his butt deep into his favorite reclining chair. "Mmm, that's nice," Mortimer murmured, feeling his ass sink into the worn leather. It felt correct. The perfect place a man of his portliness should be residing - surrounded by his array of books, his television, and his beautiful home. Feelings of doubt or insecurity evaporated as he lovingly rubbed his broad, flabby back against the cushion. Although being a man of this age had its downsides, he increasingly couldn't think of himself being any other age. Lounging in his favorite chair for the rest of his days, using his excessive wealth to indulge on luxurious, succulent meals while watching the television and feeling his colossal, fat body grow even bigger throughout the years as he filled it with decadence. He deserved this, he deserved everything given to him. He had created an empire from the humblest of beginnings. He'd kept it strong through thick and thin. Recession and war. 

Memories were flooding back to him. Of meeting his first sweetheart in the dance hall. Marrying in the new year of the new century, and his first kids being born a year later. Twins, a boy and a girl. A messy divorce leading to this second and final sweetheart. Meeting his eldest grandson for the first time. Watching him go to war following Pearl Harbor. Celebrating his return alongside his great grandson. It was that moment he realised just how important family was, and how slaving away at work was keeping him from making those important memories. Passing the baton onto his kids and grandkids, retiring from his beloved company and settling into years of decadence and relaxation.

Years that never seemed to end. Mortimer can still recall the day he realised he had outlived his father. The day he outlived his mother. And time still went on, the decades passing without a care in the world. He had outlived his many brothers and sisters to become the oldest living person in his family, the last of his generation. The ultimate patriarch. The thought sent a shiver up his spine, and a subtle grin cracked his lips. With life expectancy at around 70 years, it was a badge of honor to exceed that by a few years, let alone more than a decade. 

"Are you even listening to me?" Mortimer jolted and turned to his grandson who had a look of patient weariness. Joseph ran a thumb over his mustache and shook his head. "You know, I get worried about you spending so much time alone. It's not good for you."

Mortimer scoffed at the idea. It felt like he was never alone. He had a different family member visit him every day of the week. Usually to talk about business, sometimes to share family news. Another proposal, another graduation, another pregnancy, another funeral. The family had grown so large, it was difficult to keep up. He missed the simpler times when it was just his sweetheart he had to keep him company.

Not wanting to dignify Joseph's observation with a response, Mortimer buried a hand into the side table beside him and pulled out a cigar. He took his time to clip the end and light it up with his favored lighter, then inhaled its spicy smoke. He allowed himself to enjoy it before exhaling the smoke toward Joseph who frowned and batted it away with his hand. "I'm perfectly fine, Joey," Mortimer drolled in that gravelly tone garnered from decades of his habit.

"It's Joseph..." the younger man seethed through his teeth, knowing full well that his elderly grandpa wouldn't hear him, before raising his voice to say, "You were just insisting you were another person entirely."

"Another person?" Mortimer growled. "I think you're spending too much time with those comic book writers."

Joseph sighed. He knew it was pointless trying to reason with his granddad when he got this way. So he stood up and said "I should get your dinner ready. Are you hungry?"

"Always." 

Before leaving to the kitchen, Joseph tossed the TV remote onto Mortimer's shelf of a belly. He picked it up, a weird feeling nagging at his head. As if he'd forgotten something important. Something crucial that he had to do. Then again, his memory wasn't the best these days. He found it difficult to remember his day to day activities. What had he been doing before little Joey arrived, for instance? He sighed and rubbed his voluminous belly, its jiggling helped to calm him down when stressed. What was he trying to remember…

A more recent memory flashed into his mind, of a little girl no older than two perched on his lap as he enthralled her with tales of his lost youth at the annual Whitton family 4th of July barbecue. It was a miracle that they were both alive at the same time to even meet. Only a very lucky few had the opportunity to meet their great great grandchildren, and old Mortimer was one of them.

Lucky. That was just the word for him. Lucky to have escaped from poverty and into a life of comfort. Lucky to have formed one of the largest publishing companies in the USA. Lucky to have birthed such a large and prosperous family. Lucky to have made it to such an advanced age. He was proud of it too. Sitting in the fabric throne cushioned by his massive ass, he chortled, feeling naïve that he'd ever thought he belonged anywhere else. He was a certified old fart. There was no such year as 2026 - at least none that he would see in his lifetime. 

He knew he wasn't long for this world. He wasn't dying, per say. But he was 86. He was one of the oldest people he knew, even within this retirement community he'd settled down in over a decade ago. He'd seen many people come and go in that time, all losing the fight to the inevitable. Yet he lingered, holding on through the good and the bad. His day would come eventually, and he hoped he wouldn't go without a good fight. No, there was no point dwelling on a future he would never see, or get lost in the memories of his past. What was best for him was to enjoy the rewards of his life in the present year of 1966.

Kicking the footrest up on his armchair, Mortimer pointed the remote at the television and switched it on. The Time Tunnel was just about to start on ABC. Who would watch this sort of drivel, he thought with a roll of the eye. Time travel was one thing, but getting stuck in a different time period? It was a ridiculous premise for a story.

-------------------

Darren burst through his front door, a large package in hand. He giggled a little as he ripped into the packaging, and held up his prize - a bundle of Macabre comics. He'd found them on eBay for five bucks, obviously sold by someone who didn't know their true value. They were in pristine condition too! He couldn't wait to tell... He paused, arms lowering to his sides.

With a quick tap, Darren opened up Discord on his phone, watching as his chats and channels updated themselves. Still nothing... It had been weeks since he'd last heard from Zach. He hoped he was alright. They had formed a bond in the retro horror channel over Mortem Post published comics over the past few months. But that was the problem with online friends. You never truly knew what was happening while they were offline.

He sighed, and carried the box of comics up to his bedroom. Darren picked an issue at random. #23, printed in December 1966. On the cover was a giant clock with rhythmic pulses expanding from its chiming face. An old man with thinning white hair, and horrifically gaunt features was below it, gripping his head in sheer terror. Darren chuckled at the imagery. Typical silver age cover art. There probably wasn't even a story about a grandfather clock inside.

He flicked through to prove his suspicions correct. But came across something intriguing. A memorial page to some old geezer. Highly unusual to see in a comic at the time, especially a horror based one.

IN LOVING MEMORY TO MORTIMER WHITTON
A TRIBUTE TO THE MAN WHO STARTED IT ALL
May. 13th 1880 - Nov. 20th 1966

Based on the last name, he must've had something to do with Whitton Press, the parent company. Sure enough, the memorial page said he was the founder's grandfather who had started the iconic publishing company back in the day. And what a day. That was the great thing about these old comics. You get a tribute to an influential man who was born in the 19th century. An actual relic born before sliced bread. He saw off two world wars, the great depression, nuclear threats. He didn't even get to see man walk on the moon, but to think he even managed 85 years is astounding for the time.

He turned the page on old Mortimer, long since gone but not forgotten, and found another curiosity. "Time travel device," Darren mused aloud. They sure had some wacky advertisements back in the day. Who would believe a toy sold for a dollar was real? He'd have to remember to tell Zach about it.