Well, For Starters... we're all in one godawful mess

But, hell—you know the score: it's been do-or-die here on San Francisco's mean streets ever since lust-crazed 49ers first grubbed, stole and killed for gold. And that same wanton heat still fires The City's lowest chakras—swelling, then waning, but always shaking down its marks; and flesh-consuming creditors still lurk outside overpriced slum-digs like mad extras from "Invasion of the Body Snatchers", presupposing their fait accompli—charging late fees, repossessing, evicting—and sopping up whoever's left inside.

The horror we face today, though, makes even abject poverty and alien suck-pods look mighty appealing. Multitudes of desperate voices conjoin into one miserable crescendo of global lament. It hits us from every angle—economic Armageddon, global warming, climate upheaval and environmental depredations; species extinction, nuclear madness, incurable disease, endless war, privatized rain, Frankenfoods and starvation; godly hate, implacable greed, political scurvy, massive corporuption and Fox-wing A.M. talk. Still, like the header says—that's just for starters.

So, what's the bottom line?

Well, our primal puppeteers have us dancin' for our dinner, slaving in their galleys, shell-shocked, terrified, and sliding down one hard, slick, cold barrel heading straight into oblivion. Yakityyak about race, sex, religion and national sovereignty obscures our biggest picture. We're talking utter termination here—as in bye-bye for all but the self-chosen few. And yes, damnit, we are, finally, talking class—the upperest-crust-massively-monied-class, and their eternal and unrelenting war upon each and everyone else on this planet.

So, then... like,... maybe we're looking at lights out, chips cashed in, goodnight Irene...and our one-way ticket punched?

Maybe yes, and maybe no.

Only one damn thing's dead certain. San Francisco Bay Time Detective's Mikki and Pete Bingo are the last hope we have.

Which is reason enough to follow our could-be heroes through time's labyrinth—down today's blood-soaked alleys, across yesteryears's fog-enshrouded Bay Contado and into depthless potholes of the future. So hop aboard, all ye who dare, and join our dialectic duo as they race through epic timequakes, pitting wits against powerful toadies in pursuit of the progenitor of this, the Earth's most ancient, heinous and secreted agenda.

And should that old saw prove right, history dooming a species for its amnesiatic tendencies, then before shouting BINGO!, perhaps we should remind ourselves just exactly how this mess got started.

To wit:

Once upon a dim-lit time planet Earth was ruled by an autocratic clan of Atlantic codfish. Now, silly as it sounds, this claim is precisely what cod emeriti have long proffered in detailed communiques sent to us from the distant etherspheres of the 12 Galaxies.

Cod Of course, cod claims concerning their own world domination do not go uncontested. Specifically, some scholars question assertions made by one Huac the Vile, the clan's long dead strongman. Critics opine that Mr. Vile possessed an enormously enhanced notion concerning his and his own clan's planetary stature, and that his primordial claims need be taken with a goodly measure of salt. In fact, this dispute has reached such a fevered pitch that today's neoprehistorians place an asterisk beside even many of the cod kingdom's long accepted claims, since researchers can't conclusively prove the reach of Vile's cod empire, to one extent or another.

Whether their claims are self aggrandizing or not, what's certain is that these so-called Gadus morhua (our contemporary fish component to the accompaniment of chips) have doubtlessly been responsible for digestively eliminating uncountable fellow sea creatures. Their beastly acts, it must be noted, aren't limited to prehistory; they have occurred over a considerable stretch of time, and still do. That is to say cod (who so famously pair with a dollop of tartar sauce and a squeeze of lemon), act with rapacious abandon when summoned by mere hunger. Not settling for their simple appetence, Vile's contention is that he prodded his minions on to unprecedented gluttony in furtherance of his own quest for dictatorial world domination.

Biographers chronicle how Huac the Vile sent vast cod armadas many leagues far, deep and wide; they swimming stealthily, hoping to surprise unwitting prey—preferably from behind. While their methods were hardly sporting, one must give credit where credit is due, for there remains no more effective means by which to move quickly and quietly through water than to swim—exactly like a cod.

The question is—how far did Mr. Vile's armadas travel in order to satiate his unspeakable designs? Since much of Earth's surface was then and is still covered with water, it's easy to fathom that should his boasts prove true, the stretch of Vile's domain was considerable, indeed.

Expert deduction shows that for eons cod clan atrocities were inflicted only upon those creatures living in what we today call the Atlantic Ocean. But, according to 12 Galaxy transmissions, with the ascendance of the pathologically ambitious Huac the Vile, a dastardly plot was concocted, aimed at conquering the Pacific, too. This was, of course, an immense and unprecedented undertaking, requiring Vile to convince his notoriously isolationist brethren that their destiny lay in his expansionist vision. While it's true he was one nasty, cruel cod, none would argue that Vile was not also equally parts cunning and craven. Drawing upon these gifts Huac the Vile rightly sensed that his homey henchmen would turn lemming-like, blindly following his every unjust command, should he simply immerse them in fear.

So Huac the Vile invented it.

Then, to give his lackey swarm something to fear, Huac the Vile invented evil.

Meanwhile, one distant ocean away, a docile group of small flounder-like flatfish contentedly wiled away their time hip-hop dancing and rapping to the Pacific pulse. These artsy innocents lived along the shores of what's become known as the Pacific Ocean, near present day San Francisco. Today we call them Speckled sanddabs, aka Citharichthys stigmaeus. They're funny-looking critters, brown on top and white underneath, with both eyes poking straight up from their impossibly flat bodies.

Now, bear in mind that, like codfish, Speckled sanddabs eat things in order to survive. For dining they favor itty-bitty crabs and the like. Note this fact, since it proved their near undoing.

Huac the Vile required an enemy in order to set his plan in motion. He adroitly pegged the little Speckled sanddabs as defenseless, provincial patsies. Vile's huffery and puffery easily convinced his Atlantic cod mob that these Pacific sanddabs were the very embodiment of this new thing he called evil. Mr. Vile trumped up "indisputable evidence" that the poor little sanddabs were committing systematic genocide against itty-bitty crabs and the like. Vile proved this to his intellect-challenged "base" despite demonstrative proof that eating itty-bitty crabs was essential for sanddab survival, and eating the relatively few they did threatened itty bitty crab species' survival not one jot.

Compounding the situation, Vile pointed to the sanddabs' own Pacific Ocean, comparing it to the somewhat smaller Atlantic he and his codfish subjects freely traveled. Vile charged that should his codilk fail to take preemptive action against the mounting sanddab threat, that he and his codpanions would lose their alienable right to free Pacific swim water. This made plenty of sense to the greedy codfish masses.

However, Vile's pretzel logic was not universally lauded. Out of hundreds of thousands of sea species cajoled to send their spawn into war but two signed on, each under threat of being eaten to extinction. Still, Huac the Vile was nothing if not one hellbent, unwavering and determined cod. Following a few grandstanding demands that the Speckled sanddabs stop eating itty-bitty crabs and the like, Vile launched his truncated "Coalition of the Swimming." This clandestine sea swarm swept around Cape Horn heading far north, surprise-attacking unsuspecting colonies of sanddabs near the coast of what would one day become San Francisco.

You'll be spared the gruesome details. Note, though, that when the slaughter ended little Speckled sanddab survivors found themselves scattered thousands of miles up and down the Pacific coastline. The brief war was over and Vile's cod were triumphant; but he never did crush the sanddab's hip-hop spirit—and they never buckled under the cruel weight of Vile's flattening fin. So, in a detestable act of spite, a frustrated Huac the Vile, having just acquired certain unexplainable powers from alien forces of the 12 Galaxies, placed a really and truly rotten curse upon the Speckled sanddabs' hip-hop:

"Emperor Lucius Damen
Derin David Baden
Tyrell Buster Shaman
known as Shar-ky Bate"

From that moment on Sharky Bate was perpetually suspended within his own petrified body, unable to rap aloud, never mind getting down with any serious dance moves.

However, an unforseen glitch thwarted Viles's plan. Toxic debris from MW Ultra-Dump 7 floated between the 12 Galaxies' curious power transmission to Vile, reflecting a skosh of its code back into the cosmos. Consequently, a smidge of data required for utterly-permanent-sanddab-petrification wasn't there to download. So, while Sharky Bate became mostly petrified forever, he'd nonetheless periodically and unpredictably breakdance out from his petrified state. During these intervals, Sharky Bate and whosoever happened to be accompanying him would find themselves poked into various prehistoric, yet-to-be-historic and even might-be-future epochs in and around the city of San Francisco.

Dali time sculpture In other words, Sharky Bate came UNGLUED IN TIME. In this unglued state, Sharky could wriggle, flop and squirm about, hip-hopping to his heart's content; the down side being that along with time came decomposition, causing Sharky to become ever more, well, smelly.

And that's being really kind about it.

The question, of course, is why in the universe would the 12 Galaxies intercede on behalf of some small-minded, power-mongering Atlantic cod, going so far as to impart to him quasi-transcendent powers—which well might be used to ill effect here on planet Earth?

We'd all like the answer to that, but the 12 Galaxies have yet to respond to our many queries.

Meanwhile, Huac the Vile, being, after all, merely mortal, was eventually consumed by a fish one tic higher on the aqua-world food chain than he. By digesting Mr. Vile, this nameless fish inherited Vile's far-ranging but mostly untested alien powers. These enormous powers passed on up the food chain from sea creature to sea creature, but over time's lengthy expanse they became entirely ignored by those upon whom these powers were bestowed. Finally, a shark possessing the 12 Galaxies' awesome powers died of starvation, lost in a vast and peculiar ocean dead zone. Her carcass mummified, but was not consumed until much, much later.

And so planet Earth passed into what intergalactic scholars call The Long Intermission.

Many, many and still many more millennia passed before homo sapiens came into being. Then, in the year of the Zentinknical Ballyroop, coinciding with the little known Sumerian holiday of the Happy Leper, the awesome, albeit abridged powers from the 12 Galaxies became fully restored. For the first time, these powers were passed on to a human being—the mysterious Mr. Mung.

Today, with Mr. Mung and his clandestine cohorts effectively engaged in all manner of dastardly doings, the prospects of humanity writ large rapidly dim, though hope has not utterly vanished. However, the fate of this planet no longer rests in the hands of the masses. Our fate depends entirely upon the success of two might-be heroes, Mikki and Pete Bingo. Together with their client, hip-hop Emperor Sharky Bate, our duo hotly pursue Mr. Mung, bouncing back and forth and scouring time for leads, clues and gotchas.

Now join Bay Time Detectives Pete and Mikki Bingo in unlocking secrets to this "Mother of every damn Conspiracy"—centered smack dab in the San Francisco of today, tomorrow, never-was, might be and yesteryear.

And bring along the incense and your hip-boots, cuz something smells awfully fishy. And there's slime everywhere.