ᴛʜᴇ ɪɴᴄʀᴇᴅɪʙʟᴇ ɴɪɢʜᴛᴄʀᴀᴡʟᴇʀ! (![[info]](https://www.insanejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small} bamfery) wrote in ![[info]](https://www.insanejournal.com/img/community.gif){kind=small} silverage, |
He was fucked, to put it mildly. Kurt was most absolutely, terribly, and certainly fucked. This was like a version of The Rocky Horror Picture Show no one in their right mind could even dream up after a night of eating nothing but Doritos and Taco Bell 'meat.'
1964! And there was no way out. God knows he had tried. He had attempted to teleport away, but even when he was on the edge of an escape it didn't seem to matter. He traveled through the same bizarre dimension he had been through before, a spin cycle of doom, only to end up back here where afro's were in and laptop computers were out. A magical bulletin board, well, that was just the icing on the shit cake.
Kurt was so distracted with his thoughts that he didn't have time to dodge the girl he bumped into along the sidewalk. "Scheiße!" he muttered, more irritated at himself than her - he was wearing the image inducer (luckily it still worked here) because he didn't feel like being stared at or having rocks hurled at him in his demonic-looking form - but he had to be more careful. "I'm so sorry. I'm kind of klutzy, I should come with a helmet and an instruction manual. Are you alright?"
Of course he was from out of town. No New Yorker was that polite.