The Modern-Day Adventures of Conan the Barbarian
Matt Tweedie

Conan was tired. Dog-tired. With a heavy hand, he unlocked the door to his apartment and slowly shambled in, in a fashion unbecoming of a great warrior of his strength and stature. But Conan did not care. He was exhausted. He’d had quite the long day at the office.
As he walked in, he cast aside his jacket and made his way for the bathroom. Making quick work of his business, he stopped to survey himself in front of the mirror. Had he not been so tired, it might have struck him how casually he was viewing an object that, not long ago, he was convinced was the work of witchcraft. He looked into the hard, taciturn features of his face and grimaced. In his collared shirt, slacks and tie, he could barely recognize the proud, ireful warrior that had struck fear into the hearts of so many men and brought lamentations to their many women. He was accustomed to wearing little more than a scrap of cloth about his nether regions, and he couldn’t help but feel like a fool in these richly tailored garments, crafted by men whose names he could barely pronounce. Were it not for his long, dark hair and smoldering blue eyes, the Cimmerian youth would not have recognized himself at all.
How different things had been over the last few moons! Back in Shadizar, Conan had found a lead in his typical fashion—from a drunken lout who bragged and boasted until the Barbarian was obligated to cave his head in. He followed this lead to the Keep of Mnentok the Timelord, whose vast hoard was rumored to be on the level of making kings out of paupers. Having toiled his way through the various zombified grunts, ridiculous death traps, and mystical, extremely territorial beasts, he found himself in the Lair of Mnentok, where a ferocious melee took place. During a crucial point in the struggle, Conan lost his footing, and the Timelord tore a hole in the fabric of space-time beneath him. He was hurtled through time, and everything went dark. When he finally came to, the musclebound youth found himself in a place very different from what he was used to. Present-day North America.
Conan did not care much for this day and age. The men were all spineless cowards and weaklings who had given up their right to be the masters of their own destiny in exchange for the comforts of a living wage. There was no high adventure, everything was done through the use of machines, and women were not just permitted, but also encouraged, to ward off unwanted sexual advances! Still, even given his uncompromising nature, the Cimmerian was nothing if not adept at making ends meet, and so it was with some contempt that he found himself slowly becoming accustomed to life in this strange new land.
Absentmindedly making his way to the kitchen, the Barbarian glanced at the great wooden clock hanging over the stove. By Crom! It was fast approaching eight o’clock! His girlfriend was to have been there nearly an hour ago! He trampled his way through his modest quarters but could find hide nor hair of her. Making his way back to the kitchen, he cracked open the fridge and peered in at the contents. Partly to kill time and partly to slake his mighty thirst, the young warrior reached in and produced a box of wine. If there was one thing that modern life had gotten right, it was putting wine into a box. Conan shuffled over to the living room, flipped on the television, and collapsed on the couch with a satisfying thud. He tilted back the box in his hand and took a healthy swig. Then he waited.