Your ejector seat parachutes smoothly and safely to the ground. The tap you feel when you crash through the roof of the building below you and hit the ground could barely be called a bump. Drywall and dust settling around you, you disengage the safety harness, stand up and adjust the “7”-shaped cufflinks on the sleeves of your expensive tuxedo.
You look around for an extremely attractive woman in the room to make a pun-based joke to. You do not find any attractive women, or men for that matter. You realize you have crash landed in an Arby’s in a small town in northern Alabama.
Oh bollocks, you think to yourself Britishly. You quickly shake off your negative thoughts. That’s not the attitude that made you MI-6’s premiere field agent! Time to make the best of a bad situation.
You lock eyes with a hefty blonde wearing daisy dukes at least two sizes two small, two plastic flip flops that don’t match, and a heavily stained white tank top with WHO FARTED printed in comic sans on the front.
“Just thought I’d drop in for a quick bite,” you say, lifting your eyebrow sarcastically.
Hearing your foreign accent combined with the damage you caused to the second best Arby’s in town sends the patrons of the fast food delicatessen into a high-fructose rage. The people converge upon you. You are captured and held in Jim-bob’s trailer, lovingly dubbed “lil’ Gitmo” by the locals, for the rest of your life.