The Child of the Future

 I walk in and The Man of the Past is sitting at my desk

dandling The Child of the Future on his knee. "Five tickets, five dollars," he sings out. This is a child, perhaps even mine, and my mother bone activates. "You can't raffle off The Child of the Future!" "I can and I am," says The Man of the Past. The Child of the Future has a scruff of beard, is six feet if he's an inch and clearly works out. He is well past dandling age. "Five tickets, five dollars," The Man of the Past yodels. The Child of the Future leans over and bites off The Man of the Past's head, torso, and legs in sequence, then belches and stands up. "Manners," I say automatically. The Child of the Future calls me "bro" on his way out and lets the cat escape despite the post-it on the door saying not to.