It is a clear and crisp spring day. Birdsong drifts by on every gentle breeze. Pretty girls are emerging from their winter hibernation with all the tentative enthusiasm of young rabbits. And as usual, there we find you: Huffing paint with juvenile delinquents at the back of the arcade at the Family Fun Center, trying (and failing), to explain Trip Hop to the new generation.
"No! It's not 'hangin' out and having fun with my friends music'; it's 'just drank a bunch of cough syrup and now I'm going to try to masturbate but it's going to take a looong time' music. This guy knows what I mean!" You yell jovially at a bowl-cutted 13-year-old who unquestionably does not know what you mean.
When suddenly, a stunning young woman rounds the corner and collides with you at full tilt! She is immediately followed by two sinister men in powder blue uniforms.
"Give us the briefcase!" the shorter one growls.
"Never!" you respond instantly, "I'll die first!"
"I wasn't talking to you," the tall one replies, confused. "You don't even have a briefcase."
And he's right of course; the only thing in your hands is a dull gray spray can with some Cyrillic scrawl and the rough translation: Warning! Industrial Reactor Coating. If Inhalation Occurs, Contact Ministry of Extreme Poisons IMMEDIATELY.
"I do now!" you reply, snatching the briefcase from the fallen girl and sprinting off into what looks a lot like a swirly, color-inverted version of France, but with brilliant blue worms instead of people.
Man, reality is always pulling this switcheroo bullshit on you. You make a note to file a complaint someday.