Returning along a dusty dirt road after a three-week "spiritual detox" from severe alcoholism in the county seat, Basil Litrovich Butylkin—a mid-level stable hand—spotted the fuselage of an old crop duster. It had been rotting in a weed-choked field for three years, partially scavenged by the locals for scrap. This sight, fueled by his recent withdrawal hallucinations, sparked an immediate Revelation: his true calling was Science, and he was destined to break the speed of light!
?The moment he got home, he quit the moonshine cold turkey. For weeks, like a man possessed, he haunted the village library, devouring sci-fi pulp and the dusty journals of forgotten scholars. Finally, his eyes fell upon a grimy, leather-bound relic hidden in the back: "Alchemy: A Treatise on Transmutation and Interspatial Gateways," dated 1827. No one knew how it got there. His wife, Agrafia, watched his "scientific endeavors" with strange delight. He would lock himself away, shuffling through scraps of paper and mumbling over that ancient Alchemical tome.
?Inspired by these scholarly pursuits, Agrafia started a PR campaign at the local general store. "My Vasya’s gonna show you all!" she’d bark. "He ain't just 'Vasya-the-Bottle' anymore. He’s the HYPERSPACE BREAKER!" The local biddies would squint and ask, "What the hell is hyperspace, anyway?" To which she’d proudly retort: "It’s too deep for common folks. Hell, I don't even know myself!"
?While Agrafia was tirelessly polishing his reputation at the shop, Basil realized that for a breakthrough like exceeding the speed of light, he needed a "partner in crime"—a colleague. His logic led to one undeniable conclusion: the most intellectual man in the whole village was, without a doubt, Innocent the Blacksmith. It was a fact beyond dispute, as even the local engineer consulted him whenever the manure-pumping rig at the farm broke down.
If you find this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the infringement.
?Late that night, Basil headed to the forge. There, in a thick silence smelling of soot and cold iron, he spent the night preaching his findings from the 1827 Alchemy book. After knocking back a jar of his signature moonshine, Innocent wiped his mouth and said, "Alright, Basil. I’m in. My whole life, I’ve felt the itch of the Unknown."
?The intense scientific labor began. Armed with a crate of beets and cabbage, Basil and Innocent barricaded themselves in the forge. For two months, they worked without pause, leaving only for "biological emergencies." Rumors flew through the village; folks were convinced the two had started some unconventional lifestyle. During this time, Innocent hammered out what they called the "Hyper-Relativistic Engine" from a trophy 200-liter Nazi fuel drum left over from the Great War. For the cockpit, Basil used a dumpster he’d swiped from the city under the cover of night. To prevent the cabin from burning up during atmospheric friction, they lined the inside with a thick slurry of clay and horse dung.
?Basil himself took charge of the spacesuit. He stitched it together from a quilted blanket "borrowed" from a neighbor’s porch. The outer shell was reinforced with faux-leather stripped from the seat of an old "Zaporozhets" car. The suit was completed with a pair of hunting boots provided by Pete the Nightwatchman. To handle the G-forces, they strapped a vintage "Kometa" vacuum cleaner to the back, powered by the car battery, to keep the suit pressurized. His helmet was fashioned from a multicooker recently gifted to him by the city council for 25 years of loyal service as a stable hand. Since his wife, Agrafia, couldn't figure out the buttons anyway—using it only as a flower vase—Basil simply cut holes for his eyes and mouth.
