The headstone was old and craggy. Hundreds

The headstone was old and craggy. Hundreds of years had chiseled its elegant flourishes away and left only my name and the words "Mad. Died screaming". Time travel, I'll miss you

get that Delorean to 88. I wouldn't be returning to Hill Valley anytime soon. So instead, here I am, stuck in the Old West with some dirtbag gunning for me because

thats what happened in my preceeding two adventures. I am therefore quietly confident or survival although worried about Doc in my whiney way. That broad has his melon flipped

into the shopping cart. He wanted to get another because it was two for one, but the broad wanted save her coupons for the Pet Shop Boys. She loved gay music from the

Christian contemporary music and book store in Abilene. Her pastor, Neil Tennant, who was a raging born-again, evangelical, who

oted instead of speaking in tongues. He had founded the Owl Savior Foursquare Pentecotal Ministry, and tended to look down on his wearing flouncy sundresses to Sunday Service. He

was all in a tizzy on this day. It was Sunday, but it wasn't Sunday. But what does that mean? And what's the big idea?

And why is that dungaree guy still following me. The Burgermeister had said that dungaree guy was taken care of. Well, I am still craving seaweed, so

I guess that means there's a bit of the mermaid in all of us. The dungaree folded his arms with a wry smile and took out the pocket watch that everyone had missed. "What has come?"