Quantum Leap: 1968. Flotsam on the Walls of Freedom.

"Oh boy."

"Daffodils and calf's breath....  Your garden is amazing...."

"Al.  Is that you?"

"Sam!"

He had awoken, September 1968, a topless Mexican named Taco standing over him, shoveling hamburger into an assembly line.

"The FACK?!?!"

He could hear the grease sizzling, but knew not, couldn't see, where the fryer was.  Still, the big Mexican shoveled, hairy somebody, complexion of a muddy ditchbank, that one.

"Maybe you're hear to save Elvis, Sam" said Al.  "Maybe get him to mix in more Gospel favorites."

"But I'm stuck for the time being between this Mexican's feet" said Sam.

"Maybe this is the future, and everything is one big giant Burger King kitchen."

"September?" said Sam.  "1968?"

"That's what Ziggy says."

Someone was beating a child.  I mean just, bastardry, putting down the newspaper, that soaked in Natural Light bear, and going after the poor boy, I mean, he comes home from school, and all.

"No, Billy, don't play with the chemicals!"

"Maybe you're supposed to stop Billy from playing with the chemicals" said Al.  It was too much for a knee-jerk Blue Dog to bear.  He had to give that deddy a whooping like the deddy put on the boy.

"Did you do violence to that boy?"

"Choke yourself with your own hand, clown."

"I axed you a mahfah question of information" said Sam.  Al was getting nervous.  "You voilenced on that boy? Is that a way to treat your own boy?"

"There's a 63 percent chance you die here, Sam" said Al.  "And Elvis, at this rate, won't cut anymore Gospel classics.  If he does, In the Ghetto, he'll be black-balled instead of black-labelled.  Come on, Sam!"

"Al" said Sam, exasperated.  "I'm lying here on the subway tile, and the outward observer would swear I'm talking to myself, between this Mexican's feet, and looks like he's never gonna stop with the stupid hamburger."

"But what about Elvis?"

"Maybe he needs a prescription."

"That's not funny, Sam."

"No, hear me out" said Sam.  "That guy in the commercial has like 8 acres he could drive over, but he goes right through the mud puddle, as the announcer boasts him 'getting things done'."

"That was the bent penis thing?"

"Like from your stag party?"

"No the television commercial" said Al.  "Padroni's disease.  Patroni's disease.  Whatever."

"I'm gonna die on this floor, aren't I, Al?" said Sam.

The boy punched his diddy in the kneecap.

The Mexican shoveled hamburger.

Sam checked messages on his 1989 high-tech pager.

"Elvis, remember?" said Al.

"Is his penis straight?"

"Just do what comes naturally."

"FAACKK! That's unAmerican" said Sam.  "What about the one where the MILF smiles and cribs her husband's baseball cap?  Something about getting struck by a mood."

"Smack my b*tch up, for reelz, Samstag."

"I'm about to lose my sh*t and kick this big ass Mexican in his nuts" said Sam, covering his eyes in frustration.  "Then I'm gonna light this whole muhfuh up."

"Focus, Sam" said Al.  "You started about gardens and flowers."

"Elvis's dead body will fertilize those flowers" said Sam.  "That's the answer: how does your garden grow?"

And he leaped out, having said next to nothing, and what did slip through was utter gibberish, some kind of magic gibberish that got Sam Beckett one step closer to home.