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Shielding his matches from the stormy winds, Marty carefully lit the Almanac on fire and watched as it crumbled and burned into a heap of ashes. Sitting back with a sigh of relief, he thumbed over the matchbook he'd taken from Biff in the alternate timeline and marveled as its printed text slowly morphed to read "AUTO DETAILING."

Both relieved and in disbelief, he unfurled the newspapers he'd collected and confirmed that his father would live, then leapt to his feet.

"Doc! Doc! My father's alive!" he yelled into his walkie talkie. "That means everything's back to normal, right?"

Seated precariously in the hovering DeLorean, Doc Brown unfurled his copy of the Hill Valley Telegraph to confirm that everything had been set right once again. With a satisfied grin, Doc let out his breath. "Mission accomplished."

"That means Jennifer's okay and Einie's okay, right?!" Marty shouted into his walkie talkie.

"That's right, Marty, it's the ripple effect!" the Doc yelled back. "The future is back, so let's go home!"

"Right! Let's get our asses back to the fu--"

Before Marty could finish his sentence, a huge bolt of lightning ripped through the sky, striking a nearby tree and setting it alight, branches splintering off. A large thrush of foliage crashed into the road, causing Marty to tumble back.

"Doc! Doc, are you okay?!" Marty searched the sky furiously for his friend's flying car.

"That was a close one! I almost bought the farm!" exclaimed Doc as he wrestled with the steering wheel and juggled his walkie talkie.

"Well, be careful! You don't wanna get struck by lightning!!"

As if on cue, another bolt crashed through the air, striking the DeLorean this time. With a flash of light and flame, the vehicle vanished, taking its owner with it on an involuntary trip through time.

In January of the year 1885, three flashes of light clapped through the air and the DeLorean exploded into an otherwise serene desert landscape. Doc Brown surveyed his surroundings in shock for a split second before the vehicle tumbled out of the air, its circuits now permanently damaged from taking the brunt of the lightning.

Unsure of where, let alone when he was, the Doc gazed about wildly. Off in the distance, a tribe of indians rode by on horseback, whooping and chanting.

"Indians! Great Scott! This must be... the 1800s?" Doc wracked his brains, thinking out loud. "Never mind all that! I've got to get out of sight!"

Fortunately, the DeLorean had landed near a small range of hills and valleys. Cajoling the engine back on, the Doc carefully drove the DeLorean, eventually parking it neatly in a deep crevice where it would be difficult to detect. From a distance, the shiny exterior of the car would look like a mirage under the hot desert sun.

Cracking open his emergency time-travel kit, Doc selected the most appropriate clothing he could and changed in the shade. He loaded a few gold and silver ingots into his pockets, crossed his fingers and set off on foot to find the nearest town.

Doc Brown's luck held out. Eventually making it to 1885 Hill Valley, he stopped off at a general store and convinced the owner (amid some long looks at his strange attire and offered currency) to allow him to purchase provisions.

Over the next eight months, the Doc used his resources carefully to establish himself as the town's blacksmith, scrimping and saving however he could. Although he had become a respected member of the community and found himself fond of the tranquility of 1885, he never stopped thinking about his dear friend Marty, stranded in 1955.

At last, on September 2, 1885, Doc mounted his horse and rode several miles to the nearest Western Union outpost. In his coat pocket, he carried a thick envelope containing a letter he'd written:

Dear Marty,

If my calculations are correct, you will receive this letter immediately after
you saw the DeLorean struck by lightning. First, let me assure you that I am 
alive and well. I've been living happily these past eight months in the year 
1885. The lightning bolt that hit the DeLorean caused a jigowatt overload which 
scrambled the time circuits, activated the flux capacitor, and sent me back to 
1885. The overload shorted out the time circuits and destroyed the flying 
circuits. Unfortunately, the car will never fly again.

I set myself up as a blacksmith as a front while I attempted to repair the 
damage to the time circuits. Unfortunately, this proved impossible because 
suitable replacement parts will not be invented until 1947. However, I've 
gotten quite adept at shoeing horses and fixing wagons. I have buried the 
DeLorean in the abandoned Delgado Mine, adjacent to the old Boot Hill Cemetery, 
as shown on the enclosed map. Hopefully, it should remain undisturbed and 
preserved until you uncover it in 1955. Inside, you will find repair 
instructions. My 1955 counterpart should have no problem repairing it so that 
you can drive it back to the future. Once you have returned to 1985, destroy 
the time machine.

Do not — I repeat — do not attempt to come back here to get me. I am perfectly 
happy living in the fresh air and wide-open spaces, and I fear that unnecessary 
time travel only risks further disruption of the space-time continuum. And 
please take care of Einstein for me. I know that you will give him a good home. 
Remember to walk him twice a day, and that he only likes canned dog food. These 
are my wishes; please respect them and follow them.

And so Marty, I now say farewell and wish you Godspeed. You've been a good, 
kind, and loyal friend to me, and you've made a real difference in my life. I 
will always treasure our relationship and think on you with fond memories, warm 
feelings, and a special place in my heart.

Your friend in time,
"Doc" Emmett L. Brown
September 1, 1885

The Doc stepped through the swinging doors of the Western Union and approached the clerk, who eyed him warily.

"How can I help ya, sir?" came the thick drawl.

"Young man, I've got a very important job for you." As the Doc finished his sentence, he removed the envelope from his coat, followed by a thick bundle in a kerchief.

"This letter must be delivered under the strictest of conditions and exactly according to my specifications," the Doc continued. "Write this down, exactly as I say."

"Seventy years from now, on November 12, 1955, whomever is in charge of this Western Union must deliver this envelope to Marty McFly. That's F-L-Y." He unfurled the kerchief to reveal a large pile of gold and silver coins. The clerk's eyes widened.

Doc pushed the bundle towards him. "Will this be enough to cover it?"

Seventy years passed. The Civil Rights era encouraged the hiring of African Americans and many businesses began the practice of employing negroes in service positions. Western Union was no exception. Miraculously, Doc's letter managed to get passed through three generations till the fateful night when Marty would be left behind.

On the evening of November 12, 1955, thunder clapped and a torrential downpour rattled the window of the Western Union office. Jamal swung his feet off his desk and picked up the seventy-year-old envelope his supervisor had given him the day before. He looked at his co-worker.

"Shieeeeet, Roofus. I dunno, iz rainin' liek a muhfugga out thurr."

"Aye but we 'posed to give it to some..." Jamal struggled to read the printed letters. "...Mar. Tee. Mac. Fly. Thas a white ass name."

"Mannnn, ain't nobody out thurr right now." Roofus picked his teeth and spat a wad of chewing tobacco on the floor. "What tha fuck iz that shit anywayz?"

Jamal tore open the envelope and slowly read the letter. After what seemed like an eternity, he looked up.

"Iz sum crazy sheet, fug it." He gave the letter to Roofus, who glanced at it for a moment before unceremoniously crumpling it up and dropping it into the wastebasket by his feet.

Doc ended up getting shot and killed by Buford Tannen several days after writing the letter. Marty never made it back to 1985 and his parents would spend the rest of their lives never knowing what the inactions of a nigger did to their missing son.