“There was an…incident…once while I was making a microwave dinner. The resulting confluence of space and time flung me back into the midst of a tribe of hunter-gatherers in the 10th century BC. I was their king, and amassed the riches of an unspoiled new world before an errant lightning strike sent me home. I directed my subjects to bury their wealth at a given spot on my departure, and I leave now to reclaim it.”

Sherrie folded her arms. “A simple ‘none of your beeswax why I’m going to Peoria’ would have done, Rick.”

“Ah, but where’s the sport in that?” Rick deadpanned. “I prefer to build a towering artifice of sarcasm every possible opportunity. In addition to being personally edifying, it makes it all the less likely I’ll get asked inane questions in the future.”

“You mean the future that you’re off to the next time you heat up a burrito?”

“You of all people should know that burritos are not used to travel to a when, but rather a where,” said Rick. “Granted, that ‘where’ has a fifty-fifty chance of being Baja California or the handicap stall in the men’s room, but that’s neither here nor there.”

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