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?"
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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 screwed.