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.