You wake up in your bedroom.

It’s a nice bedroom, if utterly alien to you. It’s got posters of planes, mostly military planes. Indian Sukhois, a Tomcat F14B with the Sundowners’distinctive livery, a Japanese F15, a huge technical drawing of a F5, a Mig21, a Mirage 2000, a Rafale M, a Mirage F1, a Mitsubishi F1, a B747 sporting the PanAm colors over NYC… you realize you know all the names, and much more. You can tell the F15 and the Tomcat share the same power plant. You know the Aim54 carried by the F14 is a huge but unreliable missile, but the AMRAAM used by the F15 can sometimes acquire the wrong plane and kill an ally. You know the startup procedure of an F16C Block 50, and can tell what restricted airspace is.

Whoah.

The life you now live is rushing into place, memory duplicates pressing on your former life and threatening to erase it. You realize the new you dreams of one thing, and one thing only: becoming a fighter pilot in the United States Navy. On your desk, a finely painted model of an F18 stands next to a huge pile of well worn exercise books. It seems that this new you is doing everything in his power to achieve his goal, and he is physically fit. No. He’s actually ripped!

You suddenly realize you are busy doing push-ups, your body executing what must be its morning routine. You realize you’ll soon be going for a fast morning run, pushing your limits. You aren’t the quarterback type, you’re lithe and fast, but in no way a lightweight. That’s serious muscle you’re bouncing around the street as you hit the pavement running.

You can feel your new life’s goals attempting to supplant the need for **** in you. This will not do. You know you have to be quick about it and ruin Becky’s life and your mother’s before you forget you ever knew any of them as different people than the crazy nympho milf married to the loser cuckold finance asshole and her ugly daughter.