early-ish fff

i feel so early, getting done before sunday night's out. i might get disbarred from being trini.
and yes, i have another, non-fff post in the works, but i'm writing something else for deadline that i hope (desperately) to parlay into something important, so everything else but paying work is on hold...
but fff's valuable to me, and this one helped clear the path through my other piece, so it was a worthwhile break.
big-up jj- i break for flash fiction friday #50:

"And then, by God, I killed the son of a bitch."
reading those last words threw his mind back 9years as if no time had passed.
his hair was back and better than ever. he’d known all along this was what triggered the loss – he’d felt the difference in his follicles waking up the morning after.
this was strange, though – he was aware he’d dropped back, and had his future knowledge available to him. was he supposed to try to change things? why else would he be later-conscious?
once he was done checking out his favourite side-effect of dropping back, he went back to the living room where he’d dropped the book. he knew better than to leave his gate unattended. he’d also known well enough to make sure all his notebooks were pocket-sized.
he stopped to think through the facts at his disposal, current and future:
he was later-conscious.
he was back just before the kill.
he needed to grab some pomade at the store.
he had his gate, whenever he needed it.
then the questions:
was he here to stop the kill? what would happen if he met himself?
then the reality kick-in-the-head:
fuckshitpiss.
he shook it off with a quick step over to his cigar box. he sat in his big chair with the box on the arm, lid ajar, and took out his fire and his father’s old wooden pipe, smooth and glossy, already packed from the small bowl that fit so neatly under the grinder. this was back when his shit was impeccable. he was already starting to feel like his old self, just observing his stash.
just as his visual and olfactory appreciation peaked and he leaned in to partake, thinking to soften the scene he knew he was back for, the door flew open and he watched his face register shock, then fear.
damn. why didn’t he check the clock? he was supposed to know better.
without time to think further than what was already in motion he lit the pipe.
as the puff of smoke dissipated, so did he – in the chair and in the doorway.
answer:
the son of a bitch lived.

walk good.