Tug and the Ripper

Also, Dickens, who would have died a mere 18 years before our arrival date, had it closer to correct. If you had money you had privilege and if you didn't your life was unspeakable hardship. So, we also brought a fortune in gold sovereigns.

We used authentic coins. The nice thing about gold is that it never rusts, or ages. So, it was easy to buy 1870s and 1880s era gold coins. We did that through dealers. Each Sovereign was worth one Pound Sterling back then. They are five-hundred bucks per coin now. Fortunately, money is never an issue with us. Nonetheless, we had to be careful that we didn't bring one with a date later than 1888. Since trying to pass a coin minted in the 1900s might raise some suspicions.

We tucked all our gear in a couple of roomy Victorian era steamer trunks. Of course, the Poseidon had the necessary time travel equipment.

I don't know what I expected, perhaps something with spinning clocks like the H.G. Welles machine. Instead, we just walked into a small room a couple of decks down, amidships.

It was obviously special, in that it had thick windows and there were heavy cables leading in and out. But it looked more like an operating room, than it did a portal to Victorian England.

I was dressed in a what the Victorians would call "undressed" style. That is, I was wearing a scratchy cotton shirt and a heavy linen coat, with a silk neck scarf, and wool pants held up by suspenders. These were natural fiber without any modern material in them. My feet were adorned by a substantial pair of patent leather boots.

Maria was wearing the latest fashion for Victorian women, even if they were going to begin the trip cross-country walking. Fortunately for her the bustle had just gone out of style and so it was only her magnificent backside underneath the crinoline. The dress itself was green and form fitting down to the ankles of her lace-up boots. It covered anything that would be considered titillating. But the outline of that body was impossible to disguise.

We rolled two steamer trunks full of gear into the room. They were temporarily on a wheelbarrow-like frame, with bicycle wheels. We were planning to ditch them as soon as we got someplace where we could hire horse drawn transport. But we wouldn't be able to walk very far lugging those heavy things.

There was going to be the characteristic flash-bang to mark our arrival. That was unavoidable. So, we planned to be dropped at night onto Hampstead Heath. That place was a lot more open in the Victorian era. It was six or seven miles as the crow flies to the Great Eastern Hotel, on Liverpool street. That was where we planned to stay.

This was a scary new experience and I was nervous. While, my brave wife was just calmly standing there. She had made this trip many times before. So, it was like she was waiting for a bus.

I wondered if Maria had looked as cool standing around in the nude waiting to be dropped into the boudoir of Alexander the Great. Her dalliance with the Great Conqueror still gave me jealous fits, even though she was only doing her duty for Atlantis. And it DID happen a few years before we met, 2,341 years to be exact. But hey! Who's counting?

Maria had packed several small time-dilation pods. Those pods were like the capsules you see shooting through the old pneumatic tube systems. Except they moved through wormholes instead. The Atlanteans use them to communicate across the ages.

I mean; they had to communicate somehow for God's sake!! We were headed for high Victorian England. While Carlos was going back to New Atlantis, which was thirteen-thousand years in the past.

Maria told me that the transition would be confusing. That was an understatement!! One moment we were in a sterile room in a luxury yacht. Then Carlos's voice said, "Good Luck." And, in an eyeblink, we were on top of Parliament Hill on the southeast corner of Hampstead Heath.

I swayed a bit. It took a moment to get my bearings. We were standing in the middle of a thunderstorm, on a muddy, grass grown field on a high hill. I thought, "Welcome to the Nineteenth Century!!"

The entire panorama of London was laid out in front of us. Except this London didn't have any tall buildings; beyond the Tower itself and a lot of Church steeples. There was the red glow of a huge fire lighting up the horizon in the direction of the Thames.

The fire told me that it was the night of August 31st, 1888. I extracted my big gold pocket watch; wrist watches being a thing of the future. The time was unreadable because the area was pitch black. So, I pulled a little solar powered halogen flashlight out of my pocket.

In an era lit by gas and candles, I knew in advance that lighting would be a problem. So, besides the Asp, which could be anything to a Victorian, the flashlight was my one concession to the 21st Century. The time read, 1:45 AM. Mary Ann Nichols was about to die.

It was an odd sensation standing there. I was less than ten miles from downtown London and there was no traffic, or aircraft sound, no radios, or TVs, just nothing. The city in the distance was making a muted grumbling noise, like it was a huge living beast. But the silence around me was absolute.

The oddest thing was the smell. Victorian England was powered by coal. The humid air reeked with its aroma. You could also detect hints of wood smoke. But there were none of the usual exhaust, or chemical scents associated with 21st Century life.

Maria was looking at me concerned, like she was afraid I was going to keel-over. I laughed and said, "Don't worry darling. It's only a minor concussion.

She smiled and said, "Then let's find a dry place for the night." It was still raining off and-on but the thunderstorm had already blown off to the east.

The sight of a drenched gentleman and lady pushing steamer trunks, which were mounted on a couple of strange wheeled contraptions, was going to attract unwanted attention. So, we only planned to walk a half-mile to the nearest coaching inn.

We had targeted Hampstead Heath because it was close to London, but relatively deserted. Our specific target was the hamlet of Kentish town. That's where the inn was. Horse-drawn coaches were still a popular mode of transport in the 1880s. Even though, the railroad was beginning to assert its dominance.

Kentish town, which, by the way, isn't in Kent, was the first practical stop-off for coaches coming into London from the north. Since the 1500s, an ancient coaching inn called the Bull & Gate had been located at the nexus of the old road system. I've been there. It's still around in the 21st Century.

The first thing that hit us as we walked in the door, was the stink. It was a fetid stench of unwashed people and wet cloth, garnished by smoke from an endless assortment of pipes and the enveloping smell of burning wood.

The noise level was also shocking. The Hollywood concept of Victorian England fosters the stereotype of the British as "reserved." Well!! I'm here to tell you that the aggressive talk and raucous laughter of a room full of drunks is anything but "reserved."

Maria did the negotiating. She was probably doing it in the Atlantean's purring tongue. But her psychic abilities made every listener think that her words were coming from a Victorian lady.

I have something like the same ability, in that I understand every language. But I can't adjust my dialect to match whatever is commonly spoken in a particular place. Maria sounded like she was born just up the road.

A sovereign bought us the best room in the house, which was right under the eaves, and a meal that was served by a maid who looked like she was about nine. It consisted of a roast chicken, and two mugs of what they called "ale."

The chicken was surprisingly tasty. But, that was probably because it had been walking around the yard a couple of hours earlier. The ale was amazing. It was like drinking a loaf of bread. It must have been brewed in an outbuilding, because it had a natural freshness about it that you don't get with our commercially distributed beer.

I could also see where the Brits got their "cellar temperature" thing. Refrigeration was still in the future but there were plenty of fifty-degree cellars to store the casks in.

We surveyed our surroundings. The bed was ornate and wood. It was supposed to sleep four men. Yes, I said men. There was nothing gay about it. It was just a simple cost saving device.

In the 1800s, commercial travelers were expected to sleep fully clothed with strangers. It was how the rumors about Lincoln got started. The mattress was just a feather stuffed cushion on a wooden plank, no inner spring, about the size of a modern queen bed.

The first order of business was to get out of our wet clothes. Wet was something we were going to have to get used to. After all, it was England. It was late August. But the temperatures were closer to what the U.S. would experience in early fall. Nevertheless, all the heat was rising into the attic and it was closer to eighty degrees up there.

So, I shed coat, pants and shirt and hung them on any handy protrusion. Maria was undoing the ridiculous number of buttons securing her dress. She has such a perfect body that the usual Victorian affectations, corset and bustle were unnecessary. So, she was wearing a chemise. But the dress also required a couple of crinoline slips and pantaloons for authenticity.

The titillating thing was that she had to wear a garter belt to hold up her dark knit hose. You can imagine my reaction when she dropped the crinolines and pantaloons and was wandering around the room in nothing but a chemise and garter belt.

Maria has the kind of body shape that you want to just hang on a wall and study like the work of a great master. Everything about her long legged, long waisted, big titted figure is pure perfection. But there is something extra-special about her hips and butt.

The power inherent in her round hips and jutting buns is evocative of her extreme sexuality. Consequently, my wife could arouse evil thoughts, while walking around in chain mail. Imagine what she looked like dressed like a character from The Victorian Pornographer's Handbook, especially with the small gas-lit lamp throwing the planes of her body into relief.

Then she dropped her bra.

I was spending my first few hours almost 130 years out of my time, totally disoriented by culture shock. But, that sight was too much to bear. I was wearing Victorian underclothes; basically, long shapeless cotton shorts. I dropped them, and strode across the room, while making noises like a classic Victorian ravager.

She turned looking amused and said, "But Sir, what will my mother say?"

I growled, "Your mother's the damned fertility goddess for an entire continent!! What do you think she'd say?"

She laughed and grabbed me by the shoulders, turned me around and shoved me backwards on the bed. As I suspected, the mattress was hard as a rock. I went ooofff!!" She said, "I'll let YOU test the mattress."

She cocked one leg over me, fumbled around momentarily and then I experienced a boiling vat of honey. She let out a long and appreciative groan. Apparently, time travel turned my wife on.

Then she began bouncing up and down at an outrageous rate. Maria can fuck a man to death in every situation. But, left to her own devices, she prefers to be noisy.

It sounded like a riot was going on in the public area below us. So, she felt free to express her passion in the way that she liked best. Hence, she was riding me like I was Secretariat and it was the Derby. She was making little shrieks as she worked herself up to an epic orgasm. I was flat on my back, gripped by her powerful legs, and like that noble horse, I was giving my all to get us to the finish line.

Her magnificent globes were bouncing up and down. I couldn't take my eyes off them. It was hypnotic. Then she hunched over, like a jockey entering the home stretch, emitting little rhythmic cries of pure lust. Of course, that dangled one big brown nipple in my face and I did what any gentleman would do in that situation. I took her perfect nub in my mouth and bit lightly.

That tweak set Maria off like a skyrocket. Her hips began a frantic back and forth motion and then she froze, every muscle in her superb body tensed rock hard. Her head flew backwards, her passage went nuts and she started whipping her hair around like she was in the grip of a frenzy. Then the screaming began.

It was clear that Maria was undergoing a monster orgasm, even for her. I wasn't far behind and it was explosive to say the least. We kind-of writhed around independent of each other, still joined. But each of us were in our own individual world of pleasure.

I know I was grunting like a bull elk in rutting season. But Maria was full-out shrieking, like I was killing her. She collapsed panting across my chest; massive boobs pillowed between us, stuck together by our mutual sweat.

It was then that I noticed that all noise in the room below had stopped. There were frantic footsteps on the stairs and an agitated pounding on the door. A worried male voice said, "Are you all-right Miss?"

Maria and I both collapsed in laughter. Everybody in England was thinking about the Ripper killings. Maria had no-doubt convinced the denizens, based on her recent vocalizing, that I was committing bloody murder up there. So of course, they were concerned.

Maria finally got herself under control and said with a decidedly upper-class accent, "Yes my good man. I was just experiencing a little cramp. I'm fine now; thank you for inquiring." Her rescuer probably drew the accurate conclusion, which was that I was a pervert.

I heard footsteps recede down the stairs. There was a short speech. Then the whole room erupted in raucous laughter and the noise level went back to civil insurrection status. It was an auspicious start to our adventure.

*****

I took some Atlantean drug. Carlos gave it to me. He said it would lessen the culture shock and help me sleep normally. I was glad I did. Because the noise never stopped and I could have slept on the floor and been equally comfortable.

It took a while to dress. We had paid two burly guys to bring our trunks up to the room. So, we had all our gear with us. I put on a clean linen shirt and added a cravat, along with a sack coat and weskit. I had the same kind of pants and braces as I had worn the night before along with a narrow brimmed felt hat that the natives called a "bowler."

Maria was in a grey wool "traveling" dress that hugged her stunning curves and then flared out around the hips. It covered her neck to ankles. But she still managed to appear seductive. Her hat looked like an entire pheasant was nesting on her head.

She wore her long hair tied-up in a bun with frilly bangs, which was the style in that period. That arrangement showcased her swan-like neck, which was the turn-on-du-jour for Victorian men. It also served to hide her gorgeous thick sun-streaked hair, which would have looked a little odd to the Victorians; sun being a commodity that is always in short supply in England.

We had breakfast downstairs while we waited for the coach. Besides the absolute freshness of the eggs, which must have just come out of the hen, I continued to notice subtle variations in the time.

The most striking difference were the class distinctions. We were clearly part of the upper class. But I'm an American, and we tend to be a little over-democratic; everybody being equal and all. So, I wasn't used to being waited on and deferred to like we were special.

Maria is Atlantean nobility and she had no problem ordering the help around. That's why, I left her to make all our travel arrangements. It DID serve to further highlight how far over my head I was in this brave new world. I couldn't wait to get back to laid-back Key West, and my Tug.

I'm a nerd, not a natural-born hero. In fact, it has always been my policy to stay as far away from the human race as I could get. That is, until I met Maria. Since then, I've been hunted by Cuban gunships, traversed ancient labyrinths, been held captive by a couple of really nasty aliens. Now I was 130 years out of my time in Victorian England; hunting a person so lethal that he created an entire genre of horror movie. And if THAT was the price to be married to Maria, it was a fair trade indeed.

The sound of the coach rattling up interrupted my reverie. That's another thing that you never think about. In the movies, people ride along in one of those things carrying on refined conversations while sipping tea. The reality was that it was like sitting in a cement mixer while the barrel was turning. For almost a half day, we bounced along, swaying back-and-forth with all the unwashed passengers. The noise made any conversation impractical and the rocking of the coach was promoting seasickness.

The entry into London proper was no different than it would have been if we had come into the place in the 21st Century, except it was slightly more abrupt. Green fields suddenly gave way to rows of one story timber houses, which eventually became three and four-story brick in the City proper.

As we crossed the Regent's Canal, which looks no different than it does today, the buildings became more substantial and were just tall enough that they obstructed my view of the skyline. The thoroughfare got wider and much grander as we got onto Regent Street. The Tower and St Paul's were perhaps the most imposing edifices.

I was astonished to notice that Tower Bridge, which is no-doubt the most recognizable landmark in London, was still in the early stages of construction. The sight of stark piers, where that ornate Victorian structure is located now, was perhaps the most disorienting aspect of the entire day. All the traffic crossing the Thames was on what is currently called London Bridge.

The other was the noise and stink. I am used to a London full of traffic. But those vehicles all move on rubber tires. The streets were full of cabs, coaches, omnibuses, wagons and every other conceivable vehicle, all moving on iron rimmed wheels. And in most cases the streets were cobbles, not pavement. That rumble was deafening.

Also, even though the 1880s marked the popularization of George Crapper's indoor plumbing, the old-fashioned outhouse was still the place where most Londoners went to do their daily business. Combine the proliferation of those ubiquitous little buildings with tons of horse shit and a shockingly un-Victorian attitude toward public urination and you get some idea what the general miasma was.

The Victorians considered bathing unhealthy, even the people who could afford tubs. So, there was a pervasive fog of body odor that would stun a rhino. And of course, romantic London was liberally seasoned with coal hydrocarbons. So, the frequent fogs could kill you, sometimes literally!!

As we rattled up to the Great Eastern Hotel it was clear that I wasn't in Kansas anymore. Frankly it was terrifying. I looked at my valiant little wife. She was sitting there twirling her parasol looking like she didn't have a care in the world.

She had done this a lot and the disconnect with reality wasn't affecting her like it was me. But a few days ago, I had been sitting in Captain Tony's Bar in sunny 21st Century Key West. Now I was sitting with a bunch of smelly people, in a four-wheel torture chamber, driving through alien and forbidding 1888 London. Imagine how you'd react!! I still felt like such a wuss.

Maria has a truly beautiful face; her features are perfectly proportioned, intelligent and serene. Her grey wool dress might have covered her from neck to ankle. But it made her curves even more blatantly obvious. So, as she walked up to the porter's desk, she attracted a lot of attention. The Great Eastern Hotel was built 1884. That was on the site of England's first insane asylum. the Bethlehem Royal Hospital, which opened in 1247 and was pronounced 'bedlam'. That's where the word comes from.