I flew through the
air for a few days, narrowly missing flocks of birds, before
the vehicle finally began to descend. Missing a pickup truck by mere
inches, I landed with a great thump which jarred my brain greatly.
I'm certain it ricocheted off my skull for a few minutes before
finally coming to rest in its original position again. Hopefully the
rental company wouldn't notice that huge cranium-shaped dent in the
vehicle's roof.
As I tried to recover from my world-record migraine,
I noticed that there were a great number of cars and people in the
road, blocking the way out. Come to think of it, there were also
helicopters, tanks, cannons, fighter jets, and several other things.
I tired to swerve out of the way, but my beyond bald tires, which
were actually just hubcaps at this point, didn't seem to take
direction well, and my speed didn't help much either. As a result, the car began spinning around at a phenomenal rate. There was a terrific screeching noise, just a few hertz shy of being out
of a human's hearing range and into the range used in dog whistles
and mouse operas. When I finally stopped, I was able to take a closer look at the
road block, which appeared to be the country's equivalent of the
police, FBI, CIA, bomb squad, SWAT team, and army. After this, I then
proceeded to throw up (I've never been much for spinning rides, and
once became violently ill while on a children's carousel) prior to
passing out.
When I awoke, I discovered that I was in a prison, or
rather, a dungeon beneath the prison. I didn't know they had
dungeons, though over time I began to suspect from the police
officers' conversations that perhaps they had built it specially for
me. I couldn't see why they had done that, as all I had done was
destroy a road, fly through the air in a vehicle not designated for
flight, enter a few no-fly zones, and litter (see earlier statements
about spontaneous, inexplicable car disassembly during driving and
flying). Guards were kept there to torture me in various ways, such
as forcing me to watch C-SPAN and eat canned tuna. It was three years
before I was able to tunnel out of the dungeon. I had taken advantage
of my guard's death from utter boredom while watching a political debate that
night as I worked feverishly to escape.
After changing my identity, I went in search of my
private jet and accompanying crew. I soon found the pilot, who now
had a home, a wife, and two kids. He asked me excitedly how I was
enjoying my vacation, apparently not noticing that I was still
wearing handcuffs. My flight attendants were long gone. One had
traveled to England and found a wardrobe that led him to Narnia (for
that reason I was furious with the pilot for not taking me there, and
didn't speak to him except when I was yelling and ranting at him
throughout the entire flight), and the other went on a safari
trip in Africa and never returned, having somehow ended up inside a
lion, and the tour guide refused to return the flight attendant while
in his chewed-up state wearing a realistic Simba costume.
My pilot took me home, telling me about how great
his life had been over the last three years, and pretending not to
hear me or take me seriously when I screamed about how my trip was
and insisted it was his fault for not taking me to Narnia like I requested.
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