“Frakking samophlange!” cursed Pete Peterson as his time machine sputtered to a stop. The whirling vortex of the timestream faded, depositing him unceremoniously in the middle of a dirt road. A quick check of his temporal navigation system confirmed his worst fears – he was stuck in the year 1882, smack dab in the Wild West.

Pete kicked the shiny chrome exterior of his vehicle in frustration, accomplishing nothing except scuffing his sneakers. He had traveled back in time on a lark, figuring he’d check out a real live cowboy saloon and maybe pan for some gold before zipping back to the 23rd century in time for his shift at the Quantum Burger. Now it looked like he’d be hanging out in the past a lot longer than anticipated.

After hiding his busted time machine behind some sagebrush, Pete started hoofing it toward the nearest town, Tombstone. With any luck, he could get a room, some grub, and figure out his next move. Overhead, a lone tumbleweed blew across the desolate, sun-scorched landscape. Pete sighed. The Old West was a lot less scenic and a lot more boring than the movies made it look.

An hour later, a hot, sweaty, and thoroughly miserable Pete arrived at the outskirts of Tombstone. He kept his eyes peeled for the legendary O.K. Corral, but all he saw were dusty wooden buildings, rusty old wagons, and haggard-looking townspeople in old-timey getups. He pushed through the swinging doors of the first saloon he came across.

“What’ll ya have, stranger?” asked the lanky, mustached bartender as Pete sidled up to the bar.

“Gimme a Schlitz,” replied Pete. The bartender furrowed his brow.

“A what now? Never heard of no ‘Shlitz’. We got whiskey or we got whiskey.”

“Right, of course. I’ll take a whiskey then, my good man!” said Pete. When in Rome and all that.

As Pete sipped his drink, which tasted like paint thinner mixed with sandpaper, he tried to think. If he could somehow find the parts to repair his time machine in this backwater, he could get back to the future lickety-split. The only problem was, time machines wouldn’t be invented for another 238 years. Plus, he was pretty sure he needed liquid nitrogen or something to get it running again.

Pete’s thoughts were interrupted by a commotion near the saloon entrance. A dark-haired woman in a frilly dress came bursting in, followed closely by a grizzled cowboy wielding a six-shooter.

“You’ll marry me whether you like it or not, you uppity broad!” the cowboy shouted. The woman screamed and ducked behind an overturned card table as the cowboy fired off a shot. The bullet ricocheted off a brass spittoon and shattered a bottle of red-eye behind the bar.

Pete groaned. A good old-fashioned damsel in distress scenario. Just what he needed. He downed his whiskey in one gulp and stood up. Time to be a hero.

“Listen, pal, why don’t you leave the nice lady alone,” Pete said, striding toward the cowboy with his hands raised in a pacifying gesture. “No need for any more shooting, capiche?”

The cowboy spun and pointed his pistol at Pete’s chest. His eyes were wild and crazed beneath the brim of his ten-gallon hat. “This ain’t none of your business, dude. Me and the lady got some unfinished bidness to attend to, if’n you know what I mean.”

“Oh I know what you mean, you chauvinist pig,” spat Pete. “But I’m afraid I can’t let you ‘attend’ to her if you catch my drift.”

Pete lunged forward and grabbed the cowboy’s gun hand, forcing it upwards. The cowboy snarled and kneed Pete in the groin. Pete doubled over, wheezing. The cowboy brought the butt of his pistol down on the back of Pete’s head with a crack and Pete crumpled.

When Pete came to, he was lying face down in the dirt outside the saloon. The dark-haired woman and a small crowd of onlookers stood over him.

“My hero!” the woman cried, helping Pete to his feet. “You saved my life! How can I ever repay you?”

“Ugh, don’t mention it,” groaned Pete, rubbing the goose egg on the back of his skull. Some hero he turned out to be. “Though I wouldn’t say no to a bag of ice for my head. And maybe some Advil?”

“Add-veal? I’m afraid I don’t know what that is,” the woman said with a quizzical look. “But please, I must know the name of my gallant rescuer!”

“Pete Peterson, at your service,” said Pete with a little bow. “And you are…?”

“Annabelle Lee Clayton, daughter of Sheriff John Clayton. Perhaps you’ve heard of him?”

“Can’t say that I have,” said Pete. “I’m not exactly from around these parts.”

“Well, I insist you come stay with us while you recover from your wounds. It’s the least I can do!” said Annabelle.

As Pete limped off, arm-in-arm with the effusive Annabelle, a troubling thought crossed his mind. In all the excitement, he had totally forgotten the cardinal rule of time travel – don’t interact with people in the past, lest you accidentally alter the course of history! For all he knew, his klutzy attempt at heroics had already changed things. Maybe he had unwittingly prevented his own great-great-grandparents from getting together.

Pete suddenly felt dizzy. Annabelle’s face swam before him and he swayed on his feet. Was he blinking out of existence due to a time paradox caused by his bumbling? The world seemed to spin and go black…

With a jolt, Pete sat bolt upright, gasping. He was back in the driver’s seat of his time machine, parked in his driveway in the 23rd century. It had all been a crazy dream!

Chuckling and shaking his head, Pete hopped out and bounded inside his house. He never noticed the scuffed chrome and the jumble of wires hanging out of the samophlange housing. Nor did he notice the monogrammed hanky that fluttered from his back pocket, a hanky with the initials “ALC” embroidered on it. Somewhere in the timestream, Annabelle Lee Clayton pined for her clumsy future hero, creating an unresolved paradox that would linger for eternity.

Feature Photo by isaac berrocal bravo