Where the damn hell am I? What the damn hell is this? The last thing I remember was fighting the dreaded Ratzis in France and ohhhh… Yeah, there was an explosion, followed by some crazy glowing dame taking me by the hand and yanking me into a freaking time portal. There’s my where and when, but what? What the damn hell is this?

They say war is hell. Let me tell you what hell is really about. It’s time travel. Look, I’m just a regular American G.I. Joe from good old Pittsburgh, PA doing my civic duty fighting the evil Nazis. I ain’t got time for any of this mumbo jumbo. I’m the type of guy who likes to put his socks on one at a time, not two or three. I need to get back to the warfront.

All this oxygen is making me light headed. The air is so clean here, intoxicating even. Hard to think straight, but I need to get my bearings like a good soldier. To my west, there’s some kind of quarry with cavemen sitting on top of dinosaurs like they were horses and machinery. I ain’t no historian, but I’m certain that man never co-existed with dinosaurs. I can tell you this much, this is not a place right out of any history I know.

Due north and east, identical stone houses. Times like these, I wish I hadn’t slept through school, because I’m pretty sure that chimneys haven’t been invented yet. A sign ahead reads Bedrock®. Once again, I’m sure the alphabet wasn’t around either, let alone, English. Weirder and weirder.

Truth be told, I’d rather sumo wrestle a pasty sweaty Russkie with bad breath and leprosy than deal with the headaches of time travel anomalies. I remember the professor once saying, and I paraphrase here, cause I ain’t no scientist, if you ever go back in time, don’t change anything, on accounta it could, and probably will change the present.

Everything here in Bedrock is familiar yet completely foreign to me. Times like these, the topsy-turvy ones, you have to follow your gut. My gut tells me that I need to be at that quarry.

All I can do is watch and wait, and it’s driving me batty. But to win the war, you’ve got to do a lot of boring work, or you ain’t doing it right. Suddenly, a bird squeals, it sounds like an alarm, and a fat guy on the back of a dinosaur yells, “Yabba Dabba Doo!” Reflex memory kicks in, and I shoot dead, the squawking bird and then the fat man sliding down the tail of a dinosaur. Blood splatters all over the place like a ripe tomato smacking a window. Uh oh. My hands go ghostly, my gun falls to the ground, and dreadful realization sets in. I must have shot one of my ancestors. Let me reiterate, uh oh.

Foreign