Music swelled behind the computer face, as what looked like an all-too-familiar political announcement from tho 1984 presidential campaign played itself out behind the Reagan image.
‘Our special today,’ The Reagan-thing continued, ‘is Mesquite-grilled sushi, cajun style, dipped in Thai cilantro sauce.’
Marty frowned. He didn't know what everything in that concoction was. but it sounded terrible! You weren’t supposed to grill sushi anyway, were you? There was maybe such a thing as having a little bit too much of the 80s.
The video image flickered and shifted, turning into this old guy with a beard and turban. It was the Ayatollah Khomeini!
‘No!’ the Ayatollah screamed. ‘It is the Great Satan Special'. I demand you have tofu!’
The image shifted as the voice turned to a gentle falsetto. ‘Hey - be cool.’ The image resolved itself to approximate Michael Jackson. ‘Don’t be bad. We’re all friends here.' The head bobbed around on the screen as if the unseen body beneath might be moonwalking.
Marty decided he should close his mouth and do what the Doc told him he should.
‘Uh -’ he managed. ‘Could I have a - Pepsi?’
He held up the fifty.
‘Cash?’ the screen - now once again in Reagan’s image - replied doubtfully. ‘Well, it’s much easier to just use your thumb -’
‘My thumb? Huh?’ Marty looked stupidly at his hand. ‘Uh, no, look, I’ll just pay cash.'
‘Well, there’s a handling surcharge on cash, but -’ The Reagan-thing hesitated, as if truly considering Marty’s plight. ‘- well, OK, we’ll take cash.’
The video creature pointed toward a tray on the counter. Marty placed the fifty there. It was instantly sucked out of sight. There was a quick series of electronic beeps and a small panel whirred aside, revealing a covered, see-through plastic cup with the words PEPSI PERFECT.
‘And your change,’ Reagan’s image continued cheerfully, ‘rounded off to the nearest five dollars.’
A crisp, new five dollar bill shot out of another slot. Forty-five dollars for a Pepsi? This really was the future.
Marty picked up the money and the cup. The cup’s lid seemed to be permanently stuck to the top. He had no idea how to open it.
‘Hey, McFly!’ a very familiar voice yelled from behind him.
A very familiar voice? In the future.
Marty turned around, and looked at the man sitting behind the plate of half-eaten sushi, a baseball game blaring from the walkman by his seat. The fellow who had spoken to him was maybe seventy, seventy-five years old, but Marty would recognise that smirk anywhere.
It was Biff Tannen!
Chapter Four
‘Biff!’
Marty walked slowly toward the auto detailer, who now sported a head of thinning white hair and a full set of wrinkles.
‘Yeah,’ Biff replied with a smirk unchanged by the years. ‘I’ve seen you around. You’re Marty McFly’s kid, huh?’
‘Huh?’ Marty replied, still in a bit of shock from having run into his past. ‘What?’
‘Marty Junior,’ Biff replied in a tone that assumed Marty was too stupid to figure it out for himself. ‘You look like him, too. Tough break, kid.’ Biff’s smirk got even wider. ‘It must be rough being named after a complete butthead.’
Tough break? Butthead?
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ Marty demanded.
Biff picked up the cane that rested beside his feet. Marty noticed that the cane’s brass handle was sculpted into a clenched fist. Biff lifted the cane and knocked it briskly against Marty’s forehead.
‘Hello?’ Biff asked rather more loudly than necessary. ‘Anybody home? Think, McFly, think! Your old man - Mr Loser!’