Nikola Tesla was finally back in control of his space-time machine and all alone, no androids, authors or plot devices to get in the way. He was finally able to use the machine for it’s intended purpose, picking up girls.
He’d been astonishingly drunk when he’d sold it to Mark Twain. Looking down at the controls he wondered why they were so similar those of a riverboat, it made no sense, he must of been drunk when he designed that bit.
He checked the static modulator fluid, he didn’t know what the point of it was, but it seemed important that it was checked, possibly so it didn’t feel neglected. He wished he hadn’t been so drunk when he’d built the machine, he might know more about how it worked.
The noise of the space-time engine subsided as Tesla reached his destination and stepped outside. Battle sounds were drifting over a high wall. Tesla accosted a passer by and gave her what he probably thought was a winning smile. “Excuse me madam, but could you tell me where I might find Helen?”