I was riding shotgun with Murphy’s Law who had picked me up at the airport -- somewhere in the southwest, judging by the landscape and climate. Murphy and Belle were in the back seat, hanging on for dear life with resigned looks on their faces that read “Don’t worry … you get used to it.” (You see, I’d been told in real life by somebody who has ridden with him that Murphy is, um, a bit of an impatient driver …)
Anyhow, I was hanging on to the Jesus handle with both hands as Murphy proceeded to dart around and through inconvenient traffic at a rather productive rate of speed until he dropped me off in front of a shopping mall. MSgt B was waiting at the door to intercept me, and we took off through the mall at a power walk. I was dressed in my office clothes consisting of a skirt and heels, and he was in well-used coveralls and boots, and I was simply trying to keep up.
Nothing was said, but MSgt B stopped at every little kiosk and demo in the mall to fill up with complimentary coffee from dozens of little Keurig machines. We circled through the mall until we got back to the door where I entered. MSgt B was fairly vibrating with caffeine at this point. I asked him what was up with all the walking and the coffee. He nodded towards the parking lot and said “To deal with that. Get ready – we’re heading to the truck.”
As we stepped through the doors, I could see a dozen or so guys heading towards us, all with switchblades. I muttered “I got your six” while I readied my purse to use as a melee weapon. At this point I noticed the attackers were all wearing blue or red satin baseball jackets as they sped towards us, running with unusual grace while executing grand jetés every few steps, still waving their blades. I asked “Why the h@!! didn’t Murphy just drop my off at your d@#% truck in the first place?”
At which point my brain couldn’t suspend disbelief any longer and woke me up.