Somebody Else's Pants

There’s something about a Luger. It’s not the biggest handgun in the world, or the most powerful. But when you’re staring down the barrel at somebody you know won’t hesitate to shoot you with it, you definitely get the feeling that you’re in the presence of evil. I guess it’s the evilest handgun, if that’s really a word.

Of course, it doesn’t help that I’m a girl and he’s not, and that I’m wearing his pants around my ankles and nothing else. Stupid time travel lets you bring stuff forward but not backward. The pants would be around my waist if his beltline wasn’t like triple mine. Instead he gets an eyeful.

“Wer bist du?”

That’s another thing about time travel, you don’t get free translation. I respond using all the German I know. “Gootin-tog Volkswagen gestalt?”



Two guys in uniform come in with submachine guns. I have to get out of here, but I don’t want to appear back in the present with bullet holes in me. That defeats the purpose of going places.

Luger man waves the gun at me. “Nehmen sie!”

The guards shoulder their guns and come forward. One grabs each arm, though they’re both checking me out. The man with the Luger turns and leaves. Now’s my chance.

I concentrate, which is tricky when the one guy grabs my breast, but I’ve time-travelled enough to do it when people are being rude. A moment later I’m back in my room with the prize.


I just barely make it to class on time. I find an open spot in the circle and sit down. When my turn comes I proudly announce, “My name is Winnifred, and I’m wearing Hitler’s pants.”