Dancing with Disaster

My palms are sweaty, shirtless, and hovering above a crackling grill of red-hot lasers on one of the execution tubes aboard the starship Alcatraz.

At least the view of Earth from one of the airlocks is stunning, like the babe standing next to that stodgy old judge in black and white robes. This so-called judge has no sense of style—unlike yours truly, June Slik, Earth's most eligible (and currently most endangered) bachelor.

Let me assure you: This is all a misunderstanding. The middle-aged man in the slick jet-blue and gray suit behind my fiancée and the lady beside him is Earth's prime minister and his first lady. They won't allow wrong political accusations to slander their good-looking and soon-to-be son-in-law. Their infinite wealth and power will save me.

"According to the penal code 345.01 of the unified nations of the Earth, you're sentenced by death through molecular disintegration on charges of infidelity on the eve of your nuptial ceremony," Judge Morton said.

GULP

"Ms. Porter, you may press the red button to carry the sentence."

That stodgy relic of yesteryear said it with a slight smirk. He never forgave me for flirting with her daughter.

But let me explain. My fiancée's cousin was the one that had too much to drink last night, and she forced me to—

"What is your last statement before your atoms are beamed into the Sun's core?"

GULP

I have to admit that my knowledge of the legal system is limited, but my father was a respected lawyer. I remember one of his cases before he kicked me out of the house. This scoundrel escaped the death penalty by invoking the First Offender Grace plea, penal code 169. I think.

Now watch me...

"Your Honor, as a first offender, I invoke penal code 169 of the intergalactic judicial system."

"Penal code 169." The old man looked confused. "Are you sure?"

"Yes, Your Honor. And please get me a shirt. My chiseled body is getting cold, and the ladies in the room are beginning to blush."

"In response to the accused, I call upon the correctional AI system to execute time travel punishment 169."

"What?! I'm supposed to go free!" I'm surprised to see the grin on my fiancée's face and my in-laws' slight smirk.

The AI system will assign you a random time-travel mission," the judge announced, clearly enjoying himself.

My sweet fiancée whispered something in the judge's ear. I winked, but the smile she returned made my confidence waver. Her sister had warned me about the Porters' vengeful fury.

A giant holographic screen appeared. "Jonath Abigal Slik. Your mission: retrieve three items from May 15, 1985—an acid-washed jacket from Ashley Smith, a wooden ruler from Rhonda Carter, and a Walkman from Wanda Walters. Each item must be requested with the two phrases of the era: 'You're Bodacious' and 'Eat my shorts,' followed by a kiss on the cheek. Complete by 5 pm or face molecular disintegration."

Three items. Three women. One chance to avoid becoming solar decoration. Simple enough for the master of smooth talking—or so I thought, until I saw my fiancée's perfect smile turn predatory.

"To avoid any disruptions in the timeline," the AI finished, "your appearance will be altered to assimilate with the native population."

The last thing I saw before the blinding light engulfed me was my fiancée's face—beautiful, serene, and wearing the same expression she had when she caught me with her cousin.

I was so doomed.

* * *

The light faded, and I found myself in a high school hallway resembling a convention of teenage aliens—spiky hair defying gravity, pastel-colored shirts that hurt my eyes, neon accessories that could probably be seen from space, and hairstyles that made lion manes look tame.

"Ashley!"

Through the sea of 80s fashion disasters, I spotted my first target: a stunning blonde in an acid-washed jacket. She winked, and I followed. This would be easy—after all, I was quite the ladies' man in my time.

I slipped behind her at her locker, smoothly sliding the jacket from her shoulders. "Babe... you're bodacious like a stunning sun, and I don't blame you if you want to eat my shorts."

"EEW!" Her one-ton book bag was connected to my head before I could dodge it.

SLAM!

Two letterman-jacketed giants introduced my face to a locker. Through the mirror inside, I finally saw my fiancée's revenge: a buck-toothed, pimple-faced mess with thick glasses and questionable hygiene. The master of smooth-talking had become the king of the nerds.

"ARGH!"

"In your classroom, now, Mr. Slik!" A well-dressed, overweight woman, whom I assumed was the principal, grabbed my shoulder and dragged me toward one of the classrooms.

I complied, but she stopped midstride.

"UFF!" She pinched her nose. "Mr. Slik, did you shower today?"

I grinded my teeth. My fiancée hadn't just transformed me—she'd crafted the perfect teenage nightmare. The smell of revenge was anything but sweet.

* * *

The principal shoved me into the classroom, keeping me at arm's length. The small room was nothing like the comfortable white pod learning stations I was used to in the future. Instead, these primitives sat in what I can only describe as crude torture devices: ancient desk-chair combinations. Each had four spindly metal legs supporting a thin wooden seat, while a P-shaped wooden surface extended from one side. I struggled to squeeze my oversized gut between the desk and chair.

I sat in the back of the classroom, away from any groups of students chit-chatting before class, hoping nobody noticed the horror of the body I inhabited. A voice from the front of the classroom commanded us to sit, and the subsequent revelation of my torture stood before my eyes.

The teacher was a withering 90-year-old nun who looked like she'd been teaching since the invention of the wheel. Her black and white habit had all the warmth of a maximum-security prison uniform, and the missing front tooth only added to her intimidating presence. A triangle-shaped plaque on her plywood laminated desk read 'Ms. Rhonda Carter'.

I wanted to die!!

"Students!" she hit the desk with a long, thin wooden ruler as if mocking me with my prized objective. "Today is the final day of your poetry test. Mr. Slik... you're next."

My heart sank to the deepest black hole in the outer solar system. The ruler in her wrinkled hand was my target, but how do you romance a 90-year-old nun with a missing front tooth? My future depended on whatever poetic disaster was about to unfold.

I wobbled to the front of the class, my oversized body barely squeezing through the rows of desks. Someone snickered. Someone else made a farting noise. I cleared my throat, adjusted my thick glasses, and channeled what was left of my legendary charm.

"You're bodacious, Sister Carter, like a... um... holy shooting star,

Your ruler's made of awesome wood, just like my favorite peanut butter bar.

Your habit's black and white and neat, like penguins at the zoo,

And if you'd share your ruler now... I promise... eat my shorts...

I mean, blessings to you? Shalom."

The silence that followed was deafening. Sister Carter's face turned several interesting shades of red before settling on a color I can only describe as 'fury from hell.'

What happened next was a blur of ruler slaps, detention slips, and the kind of lecture about respecting the cloth that would make even a hardened space pirate blush. As I nursed my stinging palms, I realized my smooth-talking days were over. Way behind me, like my amazing looks and dignity.

The next hour in detention felt like an eternity, but at least it gave my hands time to stop throbbing.

The black and white oval clock on the room's front wall hovered as a watchful overlord. The time was 4 pm or so. I think. It was hard to decipher from the two hands of that ancient artifact. I have only one hour left and no prospect of saving my life.

Sitting on a similar plywood desk, the fellow shushed me to leave like some discarded pestilence.

I shuffled through the dimly lit halls and outside structure. Even the afternoon shadows seemed to follow me, a reminder of my imminent doom. My plans to be the most desirable man on Earth were already disintegrated.

But one last hope lifted my despair. The sun shone on a rectangular building in front of the school where many kids gathered. A rusty metal pole held a neon sign reading 'Skate Galaxy,' below a black-lettering subtitle reading 'Featuring Wanda Walters and her roller derby demolition team.'

A roller derby demolition team. Great. My final hope rested on convincing a group of skating warriors to hand over a Walkman while looking like a sweaty, bespectacled mess. But hey, between facing certain death by molecular disintegration and potential death by roller skate, at least the skates would make for a more interesting story at my funeral.

* * *

My last hope was a neon-lit coliseum called 'Skate Galaxy,' where a female gladiator in football padding and war paint ruled the rink. The Walkman hanging from her belt was my target—and probably my death warrant.

"Enter the rink, last two minutes, win a prize!" the announcer's voice crackled through ancient speakers.

Wanda and her two minions were a blur of violence on wheels, leaving a trail of bruised volunteers in their wake.

I laced up my prehistoric skates, knowing my hover-skating skills meant nothing in this barbaric arena. Opening the small wooden door leading to the rink, I timed my entrance like I was trying to jump into a centrifuge. If I get ahead and taunt the beast, I'll use my duck-and-stop maneuver to let her roll past me, trip her, and jump on her back.

ZOOM

The wrecking crew flew past me in a blur of neon and war paint. The crowd welcomed me with chants as I entered the rink.

"Wanda, eat! Wanda, eat! Wanda, eat!"

I will show these de-evolved humans what future human perfection is all about. That played well in my mind, but my stomach churned when I realized I made one fatal calculation—my current body situation was far from perfect.

My wobbling body rolled at a fraction of my assailants.

Wanda roared and slapped my back, sending my body slamming to the side of the rink.

The crowd cheered!

Her two minions grabbed me on the next rotation to the middle of the skating lane, pulling down my pants and exposing some space-theme underwear. Embarrassing!

The beast kicked one of my legs, sending shockwaves through my body. The concrete-hard floor made me wish for the cushioned impact zones of future sports arenas.

She zipped through the rink, gaining more speed and slapping the back of my head on each rotation.

I lasted longer than her prior victims, but then it dawned on me. This lion is just playing with her prey.

She zipped by, grinning. Her porcelain white teeth were a contrast to her hideous look.

"Wanda, kill! Wanda, kill! Wanda, kill!"

Wanda roared and pumped her fists.

The crowd roared back, rushing to the rink's edge to get a closer look at what could only be her final killing move.

Wanda was the wrecking ball, and I was the last standing piece of the building.

What am I going to do? I'm ridiculed, beaten, and sporting space-themed underwear in front of a bloodthirsty crowd. But maybe... maybe that's exactly what I need to be. So, let's give the crowd what they're looking for.

I stood up in final defiance, took my shirt off, and started wiggling my blubber-filled belly at Wanda and the crowd. 

"EWW!"

The crowd's chants morphed from bloodthirsty enthusiasm to disgusted horror as I unleashed my secret weapon—the most embarrassing dad-dance moves this side of 1985.

Wanda accelerated in her final run, her eyes filled with anger, and her arms extended to snatch her prey.

I locked eyes on her. Taunting her with every jiggle of my gut and less-than-chiseled pecks.

While Wanda was distracted, I threw my sweaty shirt under her skates. She went down hard, and I launched my pudgy body onto her back like a sweaty, uncoordinated superhero.

I snatched the precious Walkman from her belt—my ticket back to the future and proof that embracing complete humiliation is sometimes more powerful than good looks.

"Wanda, sweetheart, you're the biggest bodacious babe I've ever met. And for that, you're going to eat my shorts!" I ripped a piece of my pants and stuffed her in her mouth, following a smooth kiss on her scarlet-painted cheek.

A blinding light flash engulfed me as I clutched my prize. I did it!

* * *

The light faded, and my perfect body rematerialized on the execution tube. Finally, something was going right.

"Mission accomplished," I announced with restored swagger. "Time to set me free, babe."

"Not so fast," the judge said with a smirk that made my confidence waver. "The audio content of the listening device will decide your fate."

"What?" I shouted. "This seemed more like a witch hunt than a court of justice!"

The judge grabbed the Walkman and pressed play with theatrical slowness.

CLICK

A grainy guitar sound followed by a quick bass beat played.

"I was made for loving you baby. I was made for loving you."

I gave the judge the biggest smirk. His face turned from smug to stunned.

The music suddenly stopped.

"Man, that's a seventies song," a growly female voice followed in the recording. "You need to listen to what I recorded on the radio...."

"Just beat it, beat it… no one wants to be defeated..." The King of Pop's voice seemed to mock my imminent fate.

I gasped.

The judge grinned. My fiancée blew me a kiss, and her parents nodded in approval.

I had survived the 80s—the hair, the clothes, the roller derby queen—only to be defeated by Michael Jackson. My fiancée's revenge was perfect: she knew the future would be my undoing. As my molecules prepared for their journey to the sun's core, I must admit she was too good for me anyway. At least I'd learned my lesson about dancing with other people's cousins.