Kingsley's cult

Kingsley felt his ear pop as he landed in 3020. The pavement was very cold and his forehead crashed hard onto it, the pain coupled with the pop in his ears made him feel like his head had been smashed open with a sledgehammer. After a few minutes breathing in and out to wear off the effects of time traveling, he quickly dusted himself off, his simple doublet and trousers made him look odd yet fashionable and according to his calculations, old was the new fashion. 

He left the small alley and headed straight for the big art gallery, Kingsley knew he was bouncing but he couldn't help it, his friend who had introduced time travel to him had assured him that the large art gallery would be right here and he couldn't wait for to see how famous and appreciated his work would be in the 21st century.

The last poem he wrote was a masterpiece and even though he didn't like tooting his own horn, he was quite confident that he would see it on the biggest display of poetry in the poet work of Fame. So he started from the smallest poetry to the biggest, the likes of Arnold Garfield who shouldn't even be here but still managed to weasel his way in like every other thing in his life.

"Scoundrel," he spat, attracting attention from a few other people. He gave a false smile and quickly moved on to the next display. And he must say he was quite disappointed, these authors were not even half as good as he, they didn't attend the best schools or get as much awards as he did. 

"Humans in this century must be brain dead," he muttered rather angrily, how was it possible that squezzy McGee had entered this side of the gallery, he was supposed to be outside, under the pavement, below the sewers and never to have been seen.

The next piece gave him a nosebleed and he had to call a guard.

"Excuse me sir, is the curator of this establishment brain dead?" He asked.

"What?"

"Or are you all brain dead in here?"

"We will not tolerate any insults in here Sir, what displeases you about this display?" The guard asked, his nose was flared and that should have given Kingsley a warning not to agitate the guard further but he could be very obtuse when he was on a war path.

"For one, Erasmus Eugene should not have been in this gallery, is this really the best gallery in the world?"

"Yes sir, we are recognized by the British royal family and have been around for hundreds of years, sir Erasmus was a genius of his time with his poem, hitting the river an ode to the pain that ripples under the surface of every living thing be it human or animal. His autobiography is very interesting and even though he has been dead for hundreds of years, literature students all over the word are required to read and dissect his thoughts behind each chapter." The guard finished reciting like someone reading from a book.

"Surely you can see that Erasmus was a buffoon who didn't know what he was talking about, he could not even write properly."

"How would you know that sir?" someone else asked and that was then he noticed that a little crowd had gathered behind him.

"Because I am a renowned scholar and writer and I can tell you with certainty that half of the people in this establishment do not deserve to be in here!" He shouted, puffing out his chest like a peacock and a gasp reverberated round the hall.

"Sir who do you think is worthy of being here?" Another asked and he smiled as he moved away from Erasmus' work before his brain fled through his nose.

"This, now this Edward Edgar deserves to be here, he knew his stuff." He moved to another, "Christian Stewart was a little slow but I have had myself sweating while facing her-i mean while reading her work because she was good."

After thirty minutes of dissecting and analyzing the work around he realized he had finished going through the entire gallery and his work was not there. He stood rigid, thoughts running through his head rapidly because why on Earth was his work not here.

The idiot clearly stated that his work would be in the gallery on the third of September 2020 at 8pm sharp and yet, he had not seen anything that even remotely resembled his lovely poems.

"Excuse me, where is the poem of Kingsley charming?" He asked as a bead of sweat ran down his chin.

"Kingsley?" A guard laughed and the rest of the people copied him.

"Kingsley's work was horrible, he was either talking about booze or orgies and the rest seemed to be nonsensical,"

"I don't even know the Kingsley dude," another said and most people nodded as the crowd slowly dispersed.

"What do you mean?" He asked as fear seized his heart, there was no way his precious works were misinterpreted so badly.

"He was nothing," another person spoke and he couldn't see or breath, his heart began to squeeze in his chest and his tongue became numb. Most people began to disperse, having tired out from listening to the loudmouthed clown who was dressed like a homeless man with a fashion sense.

It was on that spot that someone else walked up to him and whispered in his ears. "Do not move or you die," she threatened and poked something sharp into his side. Kingsley froze up and followed her quietly till they left the building where he was promptly knocked out.

He came too groggily in a dark room with only a single green light shining above. By the time his vision cleared he noticed he wasn't alone, about fifty people gathered around him, wearing red capes and black masks.

"Welcome to Kingsley's cult of heavenly pleasure."

"A cult, why am I here?"

"You asked about Sir Kingsley and I brought you to his underground sex cult."

"What, a sex cult?"

"Yes."

"Sir Kingsley's poems spoke about worshipping a higher power, the power of sex and our cult founded by his generation was inspired by his poetry."

"When I said worship the Daisy's I didn't mean, bloody hell!" He glared at his wrist watch, "send me back."

"We can't send you back, either you join us or leave this Earth," 

"I'm not talking to you!" He snarled as a blue light enveloped him and he disappeared, back to his time to promptly set all his works on fire.