Abraham Lincoln was dead. Not because of John Wilkes Booth. No, he had failed his assassination attempt in 1865 and instead met the business end of a samurai sword. Lincoln had succumbed to the irradiated wastelands of 2056. Unfortunately for Mr. Lincoln his hazmat suit had received a small tear from one of the many borehounds that scouted the wastes for fresh meat.
Now the group sat mourning at a dive bar in 1965 Chicago; Bernie's Tavern. Nikola Tesla, a 20-year-old Goldie Hawn, and Ernest Hemingway sat at the table nursing various drinks. I had immediately started to regret picking up any of these people in my time-adventures. Although I had fostered delusions of grandeur about Tesla, it did no good when I couldn't speak Austrian, or whatever it was he spoke. All day he would just point and things and mumble something I didn't understand, or look really scared at some irradiated creature in the future and try to hit it with a stick. He was basically worthless. Hawn I had picked up for my own reasons. I had envisioned her becoming my damsel in distress during the time shenanigans, but all she did was sit in the corner and cry. She did talk to Lincoln for a while, but then he was torn apart by those hounds. Now all she does is cry and look really terrible; it wasn't even a turn-on any more. Hemingway was a real jerk. I picked him up because I thought I could use him in a fight, or maybe if we went big game hunting in the Triassic and needed to take down a stegosaurus or something. All he did was drink whiskey all day and awkwardly hit on Goldie Hawn, who was so catatonic we had to drag her around.
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