Jeff wanted to click Ulysses S Grant. He really did.
Too bad he accidentally scrolls up one.
Jeff doesn't see what he clicks, but he can feel his clothes shifting around him. His blue jeans soften and darken, forming dark grey trousers with an elegant cut. His t-shirt develops a slight sheen, as the elegant silks take the place of storebrand cotton threads. The vest, magenta velvet. A coat, matching the trousers settles on his shoulders as a light cravat ties itself around his neck. He doesn't notice his sneakers turning into a very nice pair of boots.
He dashes to the mirror in time to see his brown eyes darken to a hazel black. His hair likewise darkens, falling about his face in gentle waves of sable. His skin tone lightens, evens, until it reaches a delicately flushed shade of cream. Jeff scratches his upper lip, where a mustache is growing- who the fuck did he choose?
His pondering is interrupted by his shoulders rolling, cracking into a broad expanse, a euphoric feeling which continues down his chest as dark curls and lean, powerful muscles stretch his skin leaving him well toned. A few whiskies short of a six-pack, his stomach reforms into an athletic flexibility, the euphoria chasing away the pain of a thousand early morning exercises condensed into a single second.
In the mirror, Jeff sees his surroundings blur and lighten, just as his face blurs, fine features leaving him far from plain. These stranger's eyes snap with life as he tries to place the unusually handsome man looking at him from the mirror.
"Dammit, Johnny! Quit looking at yourself amd get a move on! We gotta make St. Louis by tomorrow or our manger will have our ears."
Johnny. John. A faded picture, scribbled over, in a textbook.
Jeff shudders as he realizes that he's walking in the shoes of the past- future assassin, John Wilkes Booth.
In the back of his mind, a crystalline deep voice, thick like barbecue and whisky, whispers, "Hells teeth, boy. What gypsy magic is this?"