“Hamilton” Marty Tales

“You all have an ‘asshole’ at work, do you not? Someone you truly hate, yet have to put

up with, because your boss is fond of them for some unexplainable, befuddling reason?

Well, Marty is our asshole.” --- The Cosmic Historian’s Initial Entry Pertaining to the

being, Marty.

Marty was rather bored today. In fact, he was often bored. Marty blamed his job

for his existence being dull. Being an immortal patron of the eras, in charge of earthly

time-space dimensional-reality for his stingy boss was also boring. Heck, Marty was

hardly allowed any fun at his job. All he could do was watch. Watch, watch, and watch

time unfold.

So, Marty chose to make his own fun. If he was to oversee time and space for

one of the least important planets, he thought it perfectly fitting that he ‘spice’ things up

a little. After all, as an avid Spice Girls fan, Marty knew the importance of spicing things

up.

Marty’s way of handling his own drudgery was either by sending people back in

time to ‘spice things up,’ - such as the questionably unfortunate Travis McKinney, to

change history – or by simply meddling with figures throughout time.

Currently, he was hanging out with his new best pal, Alexander ‘Hammy’

Hamilton. Marty decided to gift Hamilton his wisdom and so far it had worked out

splendidly. Although he had not taken Marty’s fashion advice, which Marty thought to be

a grievous error, tragically erring away from looking cool as himself. He had encouraged

Hamilton to wear the same pure-white robes, round-spectacles, and golden, silver-laced

sash as he, but Hammy had refused. He even declined growing the same matching

long and majestic beard as Marty, so they could be beard pals. Hamilton used a typical

human excuse on that one, the old, “I cannot grow a six foot beard,” shtick.

However, today would harbor a crucial moment when Hamilton would listen to

Marty. The immortal being and huge Ted Danson fans’ advice would prove most fateful.

As Marty and Hammy were spending time in Hamilton’s office, where Hammy

wrote down all his boring papery-things, Marty finally noticed that Hammy was upset

about something. Having been distracted by superior concepts like wondering why The

Big Bang Theory was considered funny, Marty initially failed to observe that Hammy was

extremely angered by some sort of trivial human matter for the first four hours of the

day. It was still early, however – two o’ clock.

When Marty paused his contemplating as to why humanity was worth investing

in after they committed such atrocities as the advent of the sitcom laugh-track, and saw

the distraught look upon Hammy’s face, he paused. Usually, Hamilton’s face would get

all scrunched up when he was mad, and he became mad a lot. For some unbeknownst

reason, his anger was typically directed towards Marty. Marty chalked this off to Hammy

not being a morning, afternoon, or evening person.

But this time Marty was genuinely concerned, because he had better things to

think about than wonder why Hammy was currently upset. So, to be a good friend,

Marty crossed his arms and asked:

“Why the long face, chuckle-duck?”

The pony-tailed Hamilton responded by roaring and throwing a book at the wall.

Marty paused again, wondering what that little tantrum was all about. He looked

at Hamilton’s head and wondered aloud:

“Are you peeved you forgot your weird, little wig-thing, this morning?”

Hamilton scowled.

“It’s well-past mid-day, Marty.”

“Yeah, like I said, morning, Hammy.”

Hamilton’s face scrunched up again, looking as if he were about to be

unnecessarily rude to Marty, when he thankfully just slammed his fist on his desk,

clearly more upset about something else.

“Aaron Burr has previously insulted me for the last time!”

Marty nodded in understanding as he tried to recall who that was. So, he began

eating his thinking cracker-jack’s. Marty knew that his distinct, loud method of chewing

always helped Hammy focus.

Hamilton gritted his teeth.

“Burr…” Marty mused, trying to rouse who that guy was in his mind. There were

so many of these Founder jabronis that he mixed up who was who. There were too

many George’s, John’s, and Betsy’s, for his liking. In a sudden rush of clairvoyance,

however, Marty remembered who Aaron Burr was.

“The one with the funny nose!”

Hamilton grinned like a wolf that just found a sleeping doe.

“Precisely.”

“Ha!” Marty laughed. He paused, wondering if there was more to this subject than

how funny Burr’s nose looked.

“What he do?” Marty asked.

Hamilton scowled again.

“He has demanded I apologize for my ‘slander.’”

“Oh. What did you say?”

Hamilton told him. Marty wondered what the heck any of the junk he’d said even

meant and immediately discarded it from his mind.

“Obviously my accused ‘slander’ is far too vague to apologize for,” Hamilton

snidely remarked.

“Obviously,” Marty agreed, already having forgotten what was said. It reminded

him of a lame East-Coast West-Coast thing – back in France, between two Bishops, in

1242.

“There is only one option left to me,” Hamilton said.

“Kiss and makeup?” Marty asked. Hamilton looked horribly taken aback, as if he

were going to be sick.

“It’s an expression, pal.”

“Ah. Like the other one?”

“Every rose has its thorn?”

“Yes, yes. Whatever that meant.”

“Heck, it meant a lot to every sad, big-haired jabroni whoever liked Poison.”

Hamilton ignored that. He was well-used to Marty saying odd things that made no

sense.

Marty took a seat and helped himself stretch his long legs onto Hamilton’s desk.

Hammy made another scrunchy face, before Marty kicked off his immortal (and

fashionably lovely) slippers, and yawned.

“So, let me get this straight,” the immortal began, wishing to be finished with this

clearly unimportant matter. “Funny-big nose called you something, you called him

something back, and now you’re both madder than Atilla trying to figure out where the

first puzzle piece goes?”

Hamilton had to pause, himself – for several seconds – to sort out that sentence.

He nodded.

“Essentially.”

Marty rolled his eyes, wiggled his toes, and sighed.

“Holy-molly, guacamole! You two are always going at it. You’re like the Desperate

Housewives.”

“How so?”

Marty waved a single, utterly wise hand in front of Hamilton.

“That – is beyond your mortal understanding, my friend.”

“Fine,” Hamilton snapped.

It was Marty’s turn to scrunch his brow.

“Hey, don’t get snippy with me, please. I’ve had a long morning.”

Hamilton gritted his teeth. Marty, realizing his new best pal for the past twelve

years, whom he had not left alone for a single second - as he appeared invisible to all

mortals except his chosen human, at any given time – was actually pretty darn upset,

decided to help him out.

“Listen, Ham’s,” Marty began, the nickname prompting Hamilton to frown before

burying his face on his desk.

“You need to show this jabroni who’s boss,” Marty followed up. Hamilton’s head

immediately shot up into the air, quite interested in what Marty had to say now. It made

him feel good.

‘See? You are the most wise and cool immortal patron of time, of all time. Joan of

Arc was full of crud,’ Marty thought.

He then remembered a beautiful Joan of Arc, in the year of whenever that had

been, replying to Marty’s request for a date, saying, with closed, resigned eyes:

“I shall just let the English burn me.”

“Yes!” Hamilton shouted, buoyed by Marty’s suggestion to show that ‘jabroni’ who

was boss. He shot up into the air and began pacing around his office filled with boring

stuff that Marty never had bothered to look at, nor ever care about.

“I must duel him!” Hamilton said as Marty spaced off, his attention drifting

towards wondering why all the men later in this current century all had funny

mustaches. Hamilton began to rant to himself as Marty became consumed by the

concept of mustaches. Beards were far superior, he thought to himself, as Hamilton

raged. Three minutes after Hamilton’s dueling pronouncement, Hammy looked at Marty

with crazed, fiery eyes.

“Marty! We shall duel, that Big-Nosed Bastard and I!”

Marty blinked. He’d forgotten when break-dancing was invented. He supposed it

was probably around in this year he was currently spending with Hamilton, 1804 years

after Jesus wouldn’t return his letters.

Marty grinned. He loved dance-off’s! With a snap of his fingers, he exclaimed:

“You’ll frickin’ kill it, Hammy!”

Hamilton paused. He suddenly looked hesitant, as if this dance-off could mean

his very life. Marty thought that strange, but heck, break-dancing was serious biz in

many cultures. The same was likely true in the immediate post-colonial United States.

“You really think so?” Hamilton asked, unaware of the vast dissonance of

understanding between he and Marty.

“Do beavers build dams?”

“Yes.”

“Do bears crap in the woods?”

“Yes.”

“Does the Pope wear super-cool hats?”

“Yes?”

“Exactly!” Marty exclaimed with a triumphant whistle.

Hamilton seemed boosted by that exchange, his spirits bolstered. Which was

good, because now Marty would get to watch a dance-off, and at least take a small

break from pondering existential, universal mysteries like how the heck The Big Bang

Theory lasted so long on air.

“It is settled! I shall duel, Burr!” Hamilton shouted, already imagining his victory.

“Woohoo!” Marty said with a cheerful, sideways pumped arm. “That’s the spirit!

You go get em,’ pal! Show that big-nosed guy, with too many vowels in his name, that

you won’t take any of his crap anymore!”

“YES!” Hamilton roared, pounding his chest like an Alpha Gorilla.

“And may the best dancer win!” Marty exclaimed.

Hamilton paused. He looked Marty over skeptically, as if he were now

questioning this entire, major decision based on Marty’s last statement.

“Dancer?”

“Did I stutter?”

“No… did you mean the duelist with the best footwork?”

“Duh.”

Hamilton let out a, ‘a-ha!’

“Then that is certainly me!”

“Yep. Now, go get him tiger! Dance the night away!”

“I will blow his brains out!” Hamilton shouted, cackling with laughter.

“Hm. Strange comment, given the context. But I endorse your enthusiasm.”

Hamilton ignored Marty as he ran to a gilded chest, opened it, pulled out a silver-

engraved box, and retrieved an old war pistol.

Marty raised a brow. Why did Hammy need a pistol for a dance-off? Didn’t he just

have to ‘serve’ Big-Nose, through epic moves?

He shrugged as he supposed a pistol could be used as a prop during an epic

break-dancing showdown.

As Hamilton ran out the door to challenge Aaron Burr to a duel that day, which

would provide a most deadly and unfortunate fate, Marty said one last thing that made

Hamilton pause:

“Hammy.”

Hamilton turned, annoyed by the delay to his epic dance duel.

Marty grinned.

“If you build it, they will come.”

“…”

Marty frowned.

“I’m saying, channel your inner Kevin Costner.”

Hamilton wondered what in the hells that meant, before nodding.

“Sure.”

He then ran off to go challenge big-nose.

Marty grinned and stretched back, yawning again.

“I always make everything better,” he said, most contentedly, to himself. He then

closed his eyes and muttered to himself:

“May the best dancer win.”