The Old West

Though the vertigo and sense of nausea were beginning to diminish, something struck Ben as feeling fundamentally…wrong.

Things felt too hot, almost stiflingly hot. As though the full might of the summer air was cutting through his being without stopgap.

And there was the smell. A heavy odour hung through the air, reeking of shit, **** and what he assumed was horeshide. The resulting amalgamation stung his nostrils and caused a wave of nausea to return.

He leaned back down and suddenly noticed that his queen sized bed had been replaced by a single, bare bones cot. Spinning around, he noticed that the rest of his room was drastically changed too. Gone were his posters, his books and comics. Where once his computer and desk had been was replaced by…a chamber pot?

Ben felt his heart jackhammer in his chest. What the fuck was happening? Had the device malfunctioned? Was he electrocuted and suffering some kind of brain damage induced psychosis?

Even the walls of the room were different, just simple timber with no real insulation. And he could hear a flurry of activity downstairs. A crowd of people, soft piano music playing.

His terror rose to fever pitch. He wanted to be sick, he wanted his mother. It was getting hard to breathe…

And then he looked down and saw the device sitting on his lap. It’s bright digital face read the time and date.

1885