The light faded, and my perfect body rematerialized on the execution tube. Finally, something was going right.

  "Mission accomplished," I announced with restored swagger. "Time to set me free, babe."

  "Not so fast," the judge said with a smirk that made my confidence waver. "The audio content of the listening device will decide your fate."

  "What?" I shouted. "This seemed more like a witch hunt than a court of justice!"

  The judge grabbed the Walkman and pressed play with theatrical slowness.

  Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

  CLICK

  A grainy guitar sound followed by a quick bass beat played.

  "I was made for loving you baby. I was made for loving you."

  I gave the judge the biggest smirk. His face turned from smug to stunned.

  The music suddenly stopped.

  "Man, that's a seventies song," a growly female voice followed in the recording. "You need to listen to what I recorded on the radio...."

  "Just beat it, beat it… no one wants to be defeated..." The King of Pop's voice seemed to mock my imminent fate.

  I gasped.

  The judge grinned. My fiancée blew me a kiss, and her parents nodded in approval.

  I had survived the 80s—the hair, the clothes, the roller derby queen—only to be defeated by Michael Jackson. My fiancée's revenge was perfect: she knew the future would be my undoing. As my molecules prepared for their journey to the sun's core, I must admit she was too good for me anyway. At least I'd learned my lesson about dancing with other people's cousins.