A sound plays that would be familiar to late millennials and older; the winding wheel and slap-slap of film awakens a memory of a projector light revealing dust motes in a widening, square cone that terminates against a white sheet.
The choppy, flickering, black and white footage shows several men with impressive handlebar mustaches and bowler hats, as well as labcoats. They dart here and there, examining star charts, chalkboards covered in compound differential equations, and diagrams depicting complex, sweeping arcs and tilted ellipticals.
A voiceover–obviously Montague affecting a nasally, Mid-Atlantic accent–begins.
Montague: Nineteen-hundred and twenty-six, at the Heidelberg Observatory in Germany, Karl Reinmuth peers into the night sky. Two-hundred and five million miles away, a stony Flora subplanet drifts through the inner asteroid belt and across the view of Reinmuth’s telescope.
A professionally carved, styrofoam replica appears in the grainy footage, held up by a single steel rod. It’s MPC designation labeled below:
2500 ALASCATTALO
M.P.C. 19332
With several follow-up flaps, the filmstrip ends.
A new scene begins with normal footage, and we’re treated to the sight of Doctor-Professor Montague Cervantes floating weightless in a small chamber, surrounded by panels of lights, buttons, and toggles.
Montague: I promised you an Astro Creep would win Keeper of the Keys. In an imitable moment of clarity and strategy, I handed that victory to the most deserving person in the contest. Anyone who didn’t expect that outcome with two Astro Creeps in the main event is lying to themselves.
He smirks.
Montague: Now, we’re both free to write our own script as we make our way to the world’s greatest show. Tempest will select the nemesis he feels most destined for, a contest I’m very keen to see. And I, having not tied myself to a specific line on the playbill, may now use the next few weeks to ace an audition for nearly any spot on the card.
Stroking his beard, Montague affects a pondering expression. This is made even less believable by the fact that he’s currently floating horizontally. Eventually he raises his left index finger (or rather, points to the side) in a pantomime of a burst of inspiration.
Montague: What else would I desire but to pursue the most creative path possible? While at the wheel, Tempest will steer us into the darkest fogbank he can find, while I will turn the lower decks into a slaughterhouse.
If the Mothman’s head were the shorter hand on a clock face, it would currently be 4:55. At this exact time, his Chesire Cat smile has swung from devious right over to peculiar.
Montague: That will inevitably bring me to The Arsonist, one who, despite his lack of authenticity on stage, is rapidly becoming one of my favorite costars to duel. His ferocity challenges me to intensify my own, and I can definitely appreciate that.
Now all that remains to decide is how to kick off this pathway I intend to beat to his doorstep. Tonight, I’ll be putting on an encore showing of an old, short lived rivalry from my early days. Should I attempt to embarrass Travis Pierce by crushing him, as I’ve done in the past? Do I lean into putting on an unforgettable spectacle, proving once again that I am the true Icon of Entertainment?
He appears to actually ponder over this dilemma, no pretense evident.
Montague: Can Travis Pierce still be crushed? His performance this year has outshined any of his previous decades’. How many can boast that they unseated World Champion Lucy Wylde by dropping a water tower on her head during a Run of the Mill match? If I’m to follow a performance such as that, I feel obligated to escalate.
Monty gives a helpless shrug.
Montague: I won’t have a decrepit factory at my disposal, of course, but perhaps I can remind Travis that in the UGWC arena, he’s in my circus.
An intercom comes on, cutting Montague off.
Intercom: Monty, would you like to join us in the cafeteria?
Montague orients himself more or less upright again.
Montague: Sure, I’m ready!
There’s a rapid flash of red light before the gravity in the capsule suddenly comes on, and Monty touches down lightly on his feet. There’s a hiss of rushing air, and a hatch to his right opens, allowing him to step out.
The Kirkwood Observatory in Bloomington had hired Montague to narrate an educational film they were producing about the history of a certain planetoid in the asteroid belt. Being a noble philanthropist who supports education, Monty accepted without pay, on the condition they would lend him their anti-gravity capsule to cut a promo in.
Though it had been discovered sixty-five years before, Alascattalo wasn’t officially named until nineteen ninety-one. Today, November 21st, would be the thirty-first anniversary (in Earth years) of that name day, during the 29th solar orbit of the asteroid since its discovery. It’s the closest we’ll ever come to a 30th anniversary, since it will be over three years the next time Alascattalo completes an orbit.
Feeling honored to have been included, Montague sweeps into the cafeteria with a flourish. Noticing the gathered staff of the observatory at a long table in the back, he strides over with a sly smile on his face.
On the table they surround, Montague sees several small paper saucers holding pieces of a white cake carefully divvied up into congruent pieces. Beside each dish stands a two ounce champagne flute half filled with golden, bubbly liquid. One of the astronomers mutters to himself under his breath as he stares at a stopwatch.
Montague bellies up and pulls a plate and glass closer. Raising the drink, he addresses the assembled group.
Montague: Gentlemen, ladies, esteemed guests, I’d like to take a moment to–
Stopwatch Astronomer: Shhh…
Just as the words catch in Montague’s throat, the stopwatch beeps rapidly. Everyone else holds up their flute for a moment and then swallows the contents. Confused, Montague hurries to follow suit. Before he can finish, everyone has taken their plate of cake and started to disperse. Surprised, the Doctor-Professor calls out.
Montague: Wait… that’s it? That couldn’t have been more than four minutes, what kind of ceremony is that?
Stopwatch Astronomer: That’s how long it stays within our observable section of the sky. We won’t see it again until twenty twenty-six.
Dumbfounded, Monty allows the astronomer to walk away, leaving the Showman standing there with his cake, confused.
