A/N: Cheating with this prompt slightly. Danger-Prone Marty manages to lock himself in Doc's basement. A short piece set three years after Part III.

Well this is a new level for you, Marty McFly.

It'd been two hours since it happened, and Marty had spent most of that time berating himself, which wasn't too out of the ordinary for his usual routine.

What he was berating himself over was, however, unusual.

You should've just waited for Doc, dickhead! What if something happens to the kids and you're stuck down here?!

The young man swore as he tried the handle for what he believed was the thirtieth time, slamming his fist into the aged door with enough rage to leave tiny lacerations in his knuckles. "Son of a bitch! Open up already!"

Yet the door to his prison remained firmly closed, unbothered by the level of aggression being transmitted in its direction. The college student gave it a final indignant kick before sliding to the floor, arms crossed angrily.

This is a farmhouse, for Christ's sake! Why does it even have a basement? What would you put in a farmhouse basement anyway? Cows and sheep and shit can't live in a basement-

Pull it together, McFly!

But I'm allowed to be cross, aren't I? This basement is freezing my bits off…and I did come down here to find out where the damn radiator was!

He'd tried screaming to no avail; there were two floors separating him and the children's bedroom, as well as however many layers of insulation. Besides, there's no telling if Jules or Verne would be strong enough to pull this stupid door open anyway.

A quick inspection of the basement didn't provide any options for escape or for relief from the November chill. There were a few boxes of random parts from Doc's old garage, as well as a crate housing some documents and books from 1885, but nothing useful to Marty. He'd slammed the lid shut, biting his tongue even though there was no one around to hear his thoughts. Not even a shitty scarf for me to wear…

Marty pulled his hands into the sleeves of his sweater, bitterly wishing he was on a tropical island. Doc and Clara weren't expected back from their dinner until late in the evening, and a quick glance at his watch revealed it was only eight thirty. "Fantastic."

I wake up

take a shit

make a few bangers

retqwewet funny shit

get out of bed (laugh