L.G. Gates climbed out of the smoking rubble of what had been, until very recently, a Wal-Mart.

“Last time I shop at this place,” Gates chuckled to himself. A gun-barrel pressed into his back. Gates turned around very slowly, his hands in the air.

“The last time you’ll shop anywhere, I think,” said the man with the gun, a proper English butler. “The Metainducer, Mister Gates.”

Gates smiled. “My old mate Phillip. Still imprisoned in the 21st, I see?”

“Not for long. The Metainducer, if you’ll be so kind,” he said, punctuated with a jab of the pistol into Gates’ chest.

“Or what? You’ll bring me tea and sarnies? I don’t think so, Phil.”

“Hand it over now, you flash bastard!” Phillip roared, his genteel facade slipping, his finger squeezing the trigger…

There was a loud crack, and Philip went down like a poleaxed steer. Gates’ companion, Ellie, stood over Philip, a 2×4 in hand. “Hey, boss,” she said. “What I miss?”

Gates looked down at his fallen arch-enemy.

“Sorry, Phil. Better luck next time.”