“The reason we don’t come back is because you’re too different. Everything you do is just so far removed from how we are in the future.”
The other man, three whiskies deep:
“Different? How so? I’m sure there must be similarities.”
The potential time-traveller, who last ordered an ‘Old Pal,’ which is the combination of rye, dry vermouth, bitters and the criminal bastardation of a Manhattan:
“The way that you express yourself is different. Just so alien, barely anyone from my timeframe can handle it. But, it is my job to come back and make sure time is proceeding the way it should.” He punctuates this by very elaborately sucking a small onion off a small metal spear he insisted I add to the drink.
The other man considers this while he stares at his fourth whisky.
“So, then how can you handle it? If we are so different. Is it like a job requirement?”
The time-traveller takes time to think, sticking his tongue out and obscenely poking it with the small metal spear that had previously impaled an onion:
“Well it’s because I have come down with a condition that is called ‘per-ver-ted.’
The man down his drink and grins, “perfect, baby. Let’s get you back to the future.”
As they leave together I have to consider my own place in the future. It must require a lot of training to pull off seductive moves like that. I’m going to have to step up my game.
The Lunar Speakeasy 