Goodbye, Howard Henning

The day the visitor from the future arrived was remarkably clear. Harold could see all the way to Alcatraz and beyond from his office on the 29th floor.
Harold was halfway through a grant application, one so boring that he almost welcomed the interruption.
Just to the left of the doorway, between Harolds Chamber of Commerce awards for venture capitalism and his H. Henning nameplate on the door, sparkling particles danced in the air.
The shimmering flared brightly and died. In its place appeared a short, oddly dressed man. The stranger wore a brown three-piece suit made from some thick material. His narrow black tie bisected his white shirt. Along the top of his upper lip was a pencil-thin moustache.
And in his left hand was a pistol, one that reminded Harold of old Second World War movies. The long, thin barrel sported a pronounced sight on the top. A Luger?
The gun barrel swung slowly until it was directed at Harold. The stranger frowned.
Harolds heart raced and his breath slowed. He held his hands very still. A seldom-used cranny of his brain made him question whether hed put on clean underwear that morning. But of course he had.
Finally the man spoke. Gott in himmel! His voice had a buzzing, metallic edge to it.
What? Harold finally found his voice. What are you doing here? Who are you?
The stranger kept his gun trained on Harold as his wide eyes took in the view out the window.
Well, Kermit H. Grover on a crutch, the man said. This isnt Germany. And this cant be 1924.
Youre right twice in a row. San Francisco. 2024. Harold felt a pinprick of hope.
The man let his gun arm drop. Those cow-patties in the transportation department screwed up again. Now Im going to have to fill out a blasted Form 18083 again. He glanced at Harold. Sorry for the interruption. He moved to touch a bump on his wrist.
Harold took the gesture to mean the man was going to leave as suddenly as he had arrived. Wait! Harold said. Who are you? And whats going on?
The man hesitated, then shrugged. Sorry. Wrong place, wrong time. Im supposed to bugzap a guy named Hitler. You ever hear of an Adolph Hitler in your time?
The name rings a bell. Youre telling me you go around your past killing people?
Just the bad ones.
But but doesnt that disrupt your own time?
Doesnt work the way it does on the beam screen. Time, ah, heals itself. Disruptions fade away after a while. Rocks in a stream and all that. The ripples dont get bigger and bigger.
Still
Look, Ive got to be going back. And not only did I not kill this Adolph perp, Ill have to fill out that Form 18083. I really hate Form 18083.
Come on! This happens often enough that you have a form for it?
Theres a form for everything. Dont you have bureaucracy in, what did you say, 2024?
Well, yes. Harold reflexively straightened the grant application guidelines.
Sorry, but I really have to get back. The man touched his wrist. The shimmer returned, and seconds later the man was gone.
Harold held his breath in the silence, a calm broken only when his phone rang. The call pushed him out of his fog. Using 5% of his attention, he answered.
Hows your morning going? Sally asked.
Oh, you know.
She wouldnt believe him anyway.
*****
That same afternoon, the stranger appeared again, this time wearing a more modern suit. His pencil moustache was gone. The pistol was updated, too, with a snub nose.
Sorry about this, he said. The grunters sent me to the wrong item on the list. His gun swung until it was aimed at Harolds loudly beating heart.
Wait! Wait! Me? Youre going to kill me?
The man looked apologetic. In the next few years, you develop a home health kit that winds up killing millions of people.
That cant be right. And and youre just going to kill me?
I really am sorry. Nothing personal. Goodbye, Howard Henning.
The small gun was surprisingly loud in the confines of the office. Three shots. Some walled-off portion of Harolds brain came to a bizarre conclusion. Nice grouping.
The pain lanced through his entire body. Wait, wait! Im not Howard. Hes my twin. Im Harold Henning.
Harolds vision took on a reddish tinge, crowding the light from the edges inward.
Oh, Kermit H. Grover on a crutch. You have any proof?
My my wallet. Harold found it hard to talk.
Well, wheres your twin?
Killed last year. Home invasion. Maybe one of you guys.
Oh, man, this is terrible, the stranger said. Theyll want me to fill out a Form 2055.
Look youre from the future. Harolds vision began to shut down. His breath was ragged. Take me back fix me up.
The stranger burst into uproarious laughter. Sorry sorry, the man finally managed to say as he reached for his cuff. But thats just so absurd. If I took you with me, theyd make me do a Form 2114B. Do you have any idea how long it takes to fill out a Form 2114B?
The story behind the story: Goodbye, Howard Henning
John E. Stith reveals the inspiration behind his latest tale.
1. Make it shorter than the original work.
Check. Barely.
2. Assume no one will read it.
Check.
3. It comes after, but it is not an afterward.
Check.
4. Its also not an epilogue.
Check.
5. Describe how the work came into being or how the idea developed.
I wrote it.
6. Amplify. Answers for this section must exceed ten words.
Who doesnt hate bureaucracy and endless forms? Wouldnt you rather slowly pull out nose hairs instead of filling out a form that has any more blanks than one for your name and one for how much money to send you? And who wouldnt jump at the chance to go back in time and smother little baby Hitler in his crib lair with no paperwork required?
One of the many techniques used by fiction writers is to illustrate a truth about life. Another is to exaggerate or magnify it to the point where any subtlety has long vanished.
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