Side Income

May 2356, Exotic Fauna Trading Company, Director Office

“This happened fifteen times,” said a director, vigorously knocking on his massive wooden desk. “Last time in Africa in the nineteenth century one of the centrosaurs escaped and killed an elephant! Do you know what could had happened if you hadn’t caught it? “

“It didn’t escape. It just went for a walk,” specified Jaune, although it wouldn’t change anything.

“You’re fired. You have one last order and that’s it. You know how hard it is to get a license to transport animals from the past to the present, don't you? Can you imagine how hard it is to keep it?”

It’s not the only thing that is hard. It’s quite difficult to make a decent amount of money, Jaune thought, but he didn’t say anything aloud.

ca. 70 million years BC, Western Interior Seaway (“I have a feeling we will be in Kansas someday if we stay here.”)

The elasmosaurus retaliated as it was transported in a big net from its natural habitat. Engines roared and pulled the machine with its cargo towards the land. Jaune was trying to find a proper spot on the reptile’s body, aiming with his long rifle. The animal was tossing around, but he was an experienced hunter and needed only one shot. Dart pierced the reptile’s skin and let anesthetics into its bloodstream. It worked, and the long neck soon stopped moving.

“This time you wouldn’t want to stop for a while, right?" asked his colleague uncertainly. He did a quick examination and found out that elasmosaurus can be transported and may be interesting for their customer. Jaune smiled bitterly.

“Who cares, we are fired one way or the other. Let’s go to Scotland for a few bottles of whiskey. Sometime in 1930.”

October 2010, Journal of Modern Cryptozoology and Paranormal Studies’ Editor-in-chief Office

“What do you have?” a chief director liked enthusiastic amateurs and this one – although he stopped by only twice per year – usually brought very interesting material.

“I’d say it looks like some big beast of prey. It’s catlike, with big teeth, but you should look at yourself.”

“I will… by the way, have I ever told you that you look like a man who sold material about the Cornwall sea monster to my father? It was thirty-five years ago. My father then established this magazine and… well, you should stop at accounting on your way out. Or do you have something else for me?”

Jaune sighed. He knew that there would be no more side jobs like this. He needs to find a full-time job. He had an idea of what it could be.

“Yes, when I was here last time, I left that hairy costume here.”

“Will there be Masquerade?”

“It will. It was. In Káthmándú. I mean nearby.”

He could establish his own magazine. Or multiples of them. In different places and at different times.

After leaving the redaction, he looked at a pile of junk in the courtyard. He needs ideas, now, when he has no way to get to Mesozoic animals. He noticed a long wooden plank that was leaning against the wall. Of course, this could work. But when it would be best?

He pulled out his notebook.

Under his note “Himalaya, mask, footprints, nineteenth century, also around 1920, stop for dinner with Fort” he wrote: Wheat or tall grass. Try Australia, around 1965.

The tip of his pen quivered a millimeter above the paper. It will be Christmas soon; more money for presents sounds good.

Siberia. Something like a bomb.

It will be a blast!

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