The wheels spun and smoke was billowing out

The wheels spun and smoke was billowing out as she dropped the flag. As the Cobra gained traction the 520 HP engine torqued the car and I was headed straight toward her. I had

balls of steel and a sawed-off shotgun. I jammed the gas down. Stood up, loaded for bear and unloaded like hell as I drove smack into the farmer's market, chickens, legumes,

which I kept polished and ready in case anyone needed a ball-bearing. Ofcourse in Albania they use metric sizes and mine where not particularly handy. I parked the humvee on a

particularly important breeding grounds for endangered monk seals and got out my wrist rocket. These ball bearings were going to get a workout one way or another. My first shot

was blocked by the Greenpeace guy wearing the flak jacket. You know the guy, always wears shorts, even on a boat trip into seal territory. Why wouldn't the f'er just leave us to do

why wouldn't he leave us to do what we doing instead of shouting "Oh Do that thing you Do Do so well" it wasn't funny, hadn't been funny and wouldn't get funny. Just let whack one

which we wanted to whack? Well, I welled my will and wrestled my wrists resisting the rest. We were fit to fight fraught with forthcoming phantoms of failure. We wondered, why win?

Regrouping with renewed rancor, we reset our rebozos, and thinking theurgistically, threw thuribles at their thighbones, thoroughly thwarting the thugs

thusly with the blunt spines of our thesauruses. Their lisps were intact, our vocabularies at the brink of ludicrousness, but at the very least our point had come across.