Your mullet is muy thick, senor. And it streams gloriously in the wind as you throw yourself out the plane and plummet toward an island hundreds of miles below, where whores live in volcanoes, and roaming militias of bloodthirsty madmen slaughter each other for land and power.
The ground approaches rapidly, and you can see a highway winding through the wilderness, so you pull the cord and the parachute flares out. You float down into oncoming traffic, land on the roof of a car, then leap from that car to the car behind you. You flip through the window and into the driver’s seat. A stomp on the pedal and everything blurs as you skid off the highway and onto a village thoroughfare.
You charge through the peasants while a police helicopter tails you and riddles your vehicle with machine-gun rounds until the engine spouts flame. You turn hard and run the smoking beast off a 300-foot mountainside overlooking a dense valley of rainforest, then spring out and watch it erupt into a fireball screaming across the sky and spurting debris over the darkness below.
You open the chute again, and as you glide you fire your grappling hook into the helicopter still hunting you. You reel yourself up and into the pilot’s seat. Another police chopper draws near, and you leap out of yours and into the new one. As your abandoned chopper sinks to the earth's surface, you fly up hundreds of miles until your nose bleeds, jump out, and start all over again.
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