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.