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Spots of time!” shouts Wordsworth triumphantly, leaping from a hole in the continuum.

“W-Wordsworth?” gasps Dylan Thomas, struggling up from his hospital bed. “Impossible!”

“Nay; just possible enough,” he replies grimly. “Enough to end your insipid little career before you can be named Laureate and ruin the office–my office–forever!” He grabs a pillow.

“I can’t fight you off in this condition,” manages Thomas. “But lest I go gentle–grant me one request?”


“Promise,” he whispers, “you’ll go back and kill Aphra Behn next.”

“Sorry,” says Wordsworth, mashing pillow to face. “I need her to give Shakespeare syphillis.”