WHILE OTHERS WERE MOVING INTO THE HEREAFTER, he was whisked off on a white-knuckle ride to another time. Forces unknown, just hold on tight. Same old planet though, that didn't change. All he had to do was crank (or have cranked) his pulse up to 220, or thereabouts. The Four F's— Fear, Flee, Fight, Fuck—did it every time. And away ...

One moment he was watching a game, the next he was lancing a spear at encroaching British forces during the Zulu wars. Take that you bastards. One moment he was speeding down a Tour de France mountainside, the next he was climbing the ascent, which made his pulse, well ... you know. It drove him nuts! But there were advantages, like when he was in a tight spot, which was just about always.

Thing was, there was no telling where he'd surface. He quite liked the Romany gypsy thing where he played fiddle and got lots of fresh air, not to mention the pussy. But, if a government wasn't instigating a pogrom, the locals were running him out of town to ...

He didn't like the western mining town. Every time he opened his mouth the words 'I am Hansen, I come from Sweden' exited. The glassy-eyed locals loved him. They laughed rotten-toothed whiskey laughs from barroom tables, surrounded by pools of spat, congealing tobacco. And there was always some punk picking a fight ...

To England.

Ahh, England, where they called him Trevor. 'Trevor darling, please don't delay after work, the Lloyds will be here at 7 sharp. And park in the garage darling, we'll need the space out front.' That's how it began. The damn garage door with the sensor that didn't work + high blood pressure = stress, lots of. 'What are you doing for heaven's sake? Hurry up! I can see the Lloyds' car at the end of the street!' 211, 212 ... 'Darling, oh my God! Be careful darling, there's a possum on your head!' 217, 218 ... 'Darling? Where on earth are you? We don't have time for this nonsense, Trevor! I have a chicken in the oven, for the love of ... Darling? Darling? Hello?'

He liked the Fort Dayton ride even less, and that dumbass Davy Crockett hat. It was always the same, wagons in a circle, Indians hollering, racing around, making everyone antsy and dizzy. Muskets backfiring, taking people's heads off. Babies crying. Then, as ever, up steps cock-tease Becky with her big cow eyes:

'We need a volunteer to ride out and bring us back some extra men.'

'You know,' he said, 'that's got a real ring to it.'

'But Billy,' she continued, 'don't be a hero. Come back and make me your wife.'

'Why, there's not an Indian alive who can catch me,' he retorted, dodging a tomahawk. 'And by the way, the name's Hank.'

His pulse, outrunning spears and arrows and stallions, had him out of there as quick as a fart ...

Anywhere beat the 16th-century psychiatric hospital, the one with bars for windows. From where he'd finally move into the hereafter, which proved to be overrated, but that's another story. Arriving at the hospital, he thought maybe he'd been shanghaied for a reality TV show. For about a minute. Restrained, most days around the clock in subzero temperatures, this traveller's high-pulse days were over. Basta. He died from complications arising from an ingrown toenail. Nobody really gave a damn. His jailers threw him into an open pit where the elements and furry scurrying animals played their roles admirably.

The City dug out the site in 1970, two years before he was born. It was an election promise, to build housing for low-income families. Little remained of his Saville Row suit, but the note in his skeletal hand was still legible. 'These people think I am insane. I'm not from this time. They know nothing of the world I come from. Help me. Get me out of here. Please someone, they think I'm mad. Help me!' Poor bugger, the workers thought, and, having discarded the note into the wind, continued with their excavations.


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