Jericho Johnson: The Gauntlet of Time

Jericho Johnson: The Gauntlet of Time

  J.A. Stowell

  Copyright 2012 by J.A. Stowell

  All rights reserved. No part of this e-book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without premission except in the case of brief quotations in articals/reviews. This book is a work of, not only fiction, but science-fiction and all characters therein are portrayed thusly. Any resemblence to persons either living or deceased is strictly coincedential.

  Whether any scientific statements made within this work of science-fiction are correct and/or viable is quite unlikely.

  Just saying.

  Prologue

  I might be dead in a few hours.

  Please, I don't need your pity, sympathy or any other means of giving me the ol' pick me up gig because, honestly, I think I'm way past the dealing with death issue.

  My only regret is that, if I do happen to die soon, it won't be from natural causes, I can assure you. Which bites, really, because I bet a tired old doctor would've just loved to have had a patient that was almost ok with dying.

  Just saying.

  So, now that we've all established my demise and, hopefully, are alright with the fact that you're about to hear a story by someone about to kick off and leave all of his fans behind to wonder just where he's gone, then we can proceed.

  I’ve learned many things in my travels.

  Like how you should never buy food from certain vendors in Chinatown. Or that when in Rome, make sure you act as American as possible. I’ve learned how to defend myself, physically and psychologically, in many different ways. I also have a knack for knowing how to dress no matter where I go.

  I can’t help that I’m awesome--so don’t take it personal.

  Knowing these afore mentioned items is nice and most certainly comes in handy every single day.

  But there are some things that only I know. These things, as I so eloquently put it, mainly have to do with history.

  Some of them aren’t mentioned in the books, though. For instance: nowhere in any kind of history book you read will tell you that Vikings think a man in a expensive black business suit is perfectly normal, whereas the crusading English knights find it appalling.

  The books tell us of the glory of chain mail and how it was the most ingenious idea of the Third century but also fail to let us know that you had to be able to bench press a small jeep to be able to wear the stuff. Not to mention that it really didn't take off as the 'must have' armor until around the Sixth century and even that was really just in the middle east. Don't ask because I just know.

  We all know the three-hundred Spartans were a ruff tuff group of handsome rouges bent on saving their culture with their supreme combat abilities. Of course we all do. Because of our precious history books and history channel. When in reality there had been almost fourteen-hundred of them. They did, miraculously enough, get their red loin cloths right, but forgot to mention just how uncomfortable they were. Not to wear, though, just the whole ’running into primeval combat in my underwear’ thing. We all speak of their bravery, and for good reason, too. Going into a fight involving spears, swords, and other old school sharp objects basically naked is not for the faint of heart. I can tell you that first hand.

  They told us Poe was a drunk crazy man. Wrong. They said Bonaparte didn’t take over the whole world when in fact the only places he didn’t control in his reign were the undiscovered regions we now call the arctic.

  History as we know it is wrong about everything. And not just about the sword and shield days, either. I’m talking about Marilynn Monroe, John Dillenger, Joseph Stalin- real recent type jazz.

  I can’t tell you everything. Mainly because I’m not supposed to know myself. Indeed, the knowledge I have and the way I aquired it is extremely bad for my health. But I’ve been quiet for too long. The entire world will never know about the things of which I am about to tell you.

  So sit down. No, really, you need to sit down for this, seriously.

  My name is Jericho Johnson. I’m twenty-two years old, hate Irish wolfhounds with a passion, can swing a mean battle-axe, and I’m awesome. Did I mention that already?

  This story begins in 793 A.D. I had just bought a new suit, it was raining, and I had foolishly forgot my umbrella

  Chapter 1