As some of you know, I'm a hot shot computer
programmer who once saved Houston from terrorists, so I'm not
surprised when autograph-hunters track me down. It was Friday morning
when two men in dark glasses entered my office. "Mr. Hinkle, the
Russian military is planning a coup. We want you to stop it."
I was skeptical.
"We're not just asking you to save the world; we need you to save
Houston."
That convinced me. I learned Russian that weekend and flew to Alaska.
On Monday, I swam to Siberia and rode the trans-Siberian railway to
Moscow.
Resting in Red Square, within three minutes, a line of over 200
people stretched behind me. I apologized; this wasn't a toilet paper
line. They became unruly and attacked me. I held them off for half an
hour before a KGB squad arrived and captured me.
As they stuffed me into a car, I knew they'd been tipped off I was
coming. Suddenly, everything became clear: someone needed me out of
town, President Bush was coming to Houston, Canadian fisherman don't
wear tennis shoes, and the Pope really was Polish. I had to get home,
NOW!
I leaped from the speeding car, rolled twice, and ran to an airbase.
I jumped into a MIG-25 and took off.
Streaking over the Pacific, a dozen F-18s intercepted me. I radioed
that I had tickets to the NCAA final four and was late. They escorted
me.
My luck finally gave out. 35,000 miles over an LA suburb, I ran out
of gas, and bailed out. One - two - three - four -- I pulled out the
ripcord. It came out of the parachute. I should've read the label:
made in Russia. Aiming for my remaining chance, I plummetted through
an open skylight in a trampoline factory and bounced to safety.
I ran outside and commandeered a passing Lamborghini. Michelle
Pfeiffer scooted over, wearing a flourescent pink bikini. She smiled
too much and asked me to her place. She was in on it. I drove to her
mansion, shoved her out, and resumed racing to Houston.
Eight hours later I turned onto my street: deserted. I roared into my
garage and raced inside my home. The dark was a black, velvet
curtain. Suddenly, all of the lights came on and eighty people
screamed "Happy Birthday!" I pretended to be surprised. Thus the
moral: leave it to the Russians to give away your surprise
party.
