I am Tak the Rattlesnake. I usually drop the Tak and become plain old Rattlesnake. When I am working, however, if a name is needed, I call myself Jeromy. I have always liked the name Jeromy because I am Rattlesnake, and Jeromy was the owner of a rattle store when I was young. I have done extense plastic surgery on my body to make me resemble a rattlesnake. I have welded a rattling tail onto myself, extracted all my teeth and added in new ones, and changed the tounge. I love my tounge. I can hiss at people with dignity. My tounge is very long, and it shoots out like a snake's, and then it is shaped like the tounge of a snake. Every time my paycheck comes in I change something else. The occupation that occupies me is one that most haven't heard of before. I am a taxi cab inspector. I go into a cab, request a long journey, and inspect. I do this in the state of New York. In the last couple of years, the taxi services have changed. The regular transportation companies went out of business, and a few new ones take over. SHCS is one of them, which stand for Saddam Hussein's Car Services. A man named Shing Labing is the head of the company's New York branch, but Saddam Hussein is the head of the service itself. Shing Labing has a taxi of his own. Drivers of these car service are noted by me for their wreckless driving. Another is Muhammed Ali's Taxi Services, which is run by a man named Muhammed. Drivers of this service are ordered to punch the accelarator. Another is called There Is Something Wrong With My Madula Oblingata Transportation company. The king of this company is Jehaar the Funky Terrorist From Pakistan. These drivers are known for their all around wackoness. Last but not least, there is the Islamic Fanatics Car Services. This is headed by a violence crazed man named Rakish Ahmed.When I woke up this morning I took about 50 Official Taxi Report Sheet, which I call otters. I went outside and first went to my boss' house.

My boss is a weird man named Nga Nga. He has a very insparational story. At the age of seven he decided he wanted to be a millionaire. He didn't want to have to work, however. He wanted to inherit it. He told his father this, and his father decided to fulfill his dreams and bought a lottery ticket. He won. After doing that he decided that in fulfilling Nga Nga's dream he didn't want to take any risks. He decided to commit suicide because if he lived for too long, he might waste some of the money. So Nga Nga inherited the money and was left with the burden of deciding on what to do with it. He decided to give the money to me to make observations on how well the taxis were doing. Why did he do this? He thought up of the most ridiculous things he could do with the money, put them all in a hat, and drew. Out of that hat came my current occupation. The only thing wrong with this occupation is that every morning I must talk to him on what I plan on doing today. This is by far the worst part of my day. To tell the truth, Nga Nga scares me.

Today I buzzed the buzzer that buzzes him inside of his buzzingly strange apartment. He answered. "It is I, the Rattlesnake, that comes to speak to you," I say.

"Bzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz. I am Pirate Blackbeard of the Purple and Blue Lagoon. This lagoon is in Iowa, where it is hot and cold and greasy," he said. Now you know why he scares me.

"I'll be right up," I said.

"Bzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz. like the bee, the bee, the almighty bee, bzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz-"

I went upstairs to his office and knocked on the door, "Hi, Rattlesnake. Let's sing a song! Mondays, Tuesdays, Happy Days, Thursdays, Fridays-" Nga Nga began to sing. He was still singing while he opened the door, and he motioned me to sit down in my seat. My seat was a seat that said the chihuahua prayer on it, which went as follows: "Woof".

"Hi, boss."

"Well, anyway, go get 'em, tiger. Grrrrrrrrrrr," he started to say, and then broke into song again, "The tiger sits down with its teeth open! It's about to down its pray! With a chomp chomp and the blood, ooh the blood is everywhere!"

"Okay. I'll do just that. Bye," I informed him. He was still singing when I left. Outside, I hailed a cab. This was no ordinary cab. This cab had only one seat left because of air fresheners. The cab was full of air fresheners. "I am John L. Singh! I come from Pakistan! Do you want a sweater? I make you a sweater!" the kook said. I looked closer and saw that this John L. Singh was a woman of about 80 years of age. I wondered about the name. He/she took out the tools you use to knit and what would become a sweater.

"How do you plan too drive while knitting a sweater?" I asked. I could tell that this was a driver from There Is Something Wrong With My Mudula Ublin Gada company.

"Aye! Look, stupid American!" He/she yelled. It opened its mouth, and bit the steering wheel. It steered in that position.

We bumped into three idle cars and one police car. John L. Singh yelled back at him, "You had it coming to you for arresting Jehaar! Ha! He broke out, just so you know!" I started writing on my Official Taxi Report Sheet. I took note that the driver in question was rude to police officers, drove with despicable methods, and had too many air fresheners. I asked to get out, and he drove the car into the curb. He didn't stop, he DROVE the taxi into the curb. Luckily, his taxi was so badly beaten up that it just bounced off. I got out, and I watched it drive off. He bumped into an ambulance on the way to his next customer. If only life and taxis were back to the good old days when the transportation companies weren't so screwy.

I hailed another taxi. I got inside, and asked if I could use the trunk. This was an excuse that I often made to inspect it. "You want to see trunk? Scrrru. Americans! So stupid! Can't carry on their own! Need trunk! Scrru!" the driver said. I cold tell by the way he said "scrrru" that he was Muhammed Ali, the head of Muhammed Ali's Taxi Services. He walked to the trunk, opened it up, and I saw a lot of weapons. "Scrrru. I forgot about the stinger missiles, mini harpoons and mini ADCAPS. I'm afraid you must not put your stuff inside and must keep mouth shut, okay? Good. Scrrru," he said.

"You mean to deny me the use of your trunk?" I asked.

"Exactly. Sorry. Just come into taxi and I play Ertha Kitt's thing. Come," he demanded. I made note of that.

"Hello, this is Ertha Kitt. Cats have nine lives, (rowww) but unfortuneately you have only one, so buckle your seatbelt for safety," The taxi voice said. I looked at the medalion. It said SCRU69. The name, sure enough, said Muhammed Ali, and he confirmed it by punching the accelerator.

"Excuse me, but must you punch the accelerator?" I asked.

"Scrrrru. Yes, I must. Where you want to go now?"

"Um, take me to Chinatown," I replied. I had another question for him, "Excuse me, but why do you have a nuclear device sticking out of your glove compartment?" I asked.

"Scrrru. You see, I push button, big explosion, everybody die. Very good, no?" He explained.

"Actually, I don't like it," I said, and took note of it.

"Oh, no, traffic," He complained.

"Oh well. Not much you can do about it."

"Oh yeah? Watch," he said, and pushed a button. Out of the car sprouted ominous M-60s. "Anti-traffic device. Very good, no?" He asked. He shot a few times, and we had a clear path. I took note of that. I didn't like his anti-traffic system even if it did get me to Chinatown faster. "Scrrru. A policeman. Oh, well, what a pity," he said. He pulled a DD4 Destroyer out of the glove compartment, and along with it came a few unpaid tickets. He shot the policeman, and, of course, said "scrrru." I took note of all of this.

Before getting to Chinatown Muhammed had decreased the world's population by about 26, still had a lot of ammo left, and was still saying "scrrru". I got out, and took note of all of this. After getting out of the taxi I stopped for lunch.

After lunch it was time to hail Cab #3. I did so, and who's cab did I get but Rakish Ahmed's. I asked to use the trunk, and put some stuff from my pocketes in it. When I got in the cab, I feared for the USA's future. In this airtight cab, I saw a nuclear reactor that was supposed to be hidden in the glove compartment, a mini nuclear warhead in back of my head, I noticed that the headlights were a little strange, and guessed that Rakish, too, had anti-traffic missiles. He turned around to ask my destination and I noticed two glocks in his beard. I asked to go to Times Square. Then I looked at the front of his cab and noticed that he had buttons that said, "Vulcan Cannon launcher", and "Vulcan Turret Launcher" and one that stated that it had the power to fill the passenger compartment with cyanide. I also saw hydrofoils, an M203, and a lot of Everclear and Vodka sticking out of the glove compartment. Then I noticed that where air fresheners would usually be was a jar. It had a brain tumor inside of it. First I took note of the mass weaponry and then inquired of the jar. "It have brain tumor inside. Brain tumor belong to Shing Labing. He head of New York's chain of Saddam Hussein Car Services. He competition. He love his brain tumors. We had argument over who have more nuclear devices, so I steal it. Hahahaha!" the driver, Rakish, said. Then he put his foot on the accelerator. The Everclear and Vodka made an excuse for his driving. That is all I need to say, really, but why not say more? He must have been color blind, because he stopped at green lights and went on red lights. he bumped into many cars fearlessly, and explained his fearlesnees by telling me what the car was made out of: deuterium-alloy armor. I had already noted that the car was more or less a yellow Hummer. He also drove on the sidewalk whenever he thought he saw a 52 year old man from Arkansas with gray hair. I wonder who he thought all of the unfortunate victims were? He cursed many people off from his cab, and if they said anything back he pressed one of his many destructive buttons. When I got to Times Square I payed him and then remembered my luggage. I walked over to the trunk to get it out, but the high-tech cab had a secret to share with me. I bent over to open it up, but Rakish had already pressed a button to do the work for me. It shot the luggage out at me. It knocked me over. I wondered what would have happened if he had concealed one of his many weapons in there. I waited for him to leave, and then hailed another cab.

To my surprise, the cab that I hailed next was that of Shing Labing. The cab was a Chevrolet Corvette in terrible condition. A song was on the radio, and I recognized it to be The Pakistanian Hoky Poky. He switched it off when I came in, thank God. Unlike Rakish Ahmed's car, this piece of junk had only two sets of weapons. It had a mace 12 Guage, and, of course, and anti-traffic weapons array. I got in, and the medallion number said something vulgar. I took note of that. He had family pictures. Normally that would have been a good note, but they were pictures of his DECAPITATED family. So although I did take a note of that, as I said, it wasn't a good one. I looked at the glove comparment. It was full of unpaid tickets. I saw a jar similar to the jar Rakish Ahmed had. "The jar has my first brain tumor. Very beautiful, no?" He asked me. Alongside the jar of his brain tumor were two air fresheners. Only these didn't freshen the air. They were radiation scented. Actually, I was mistaken, that was real radiation. They were just regular air fresheners. He then spoke, "This is Shing Labing reminding you to fasten your seatbelt," he said. I was about to, but they had been removed. As if he had read my mind, he bumped into a car that very second. Four airbags shot out. They had spikes stuck into them, so they did more damage than it otherwise would have. Then I saw the reason for these spikes. The airbags were posters of Bill Clinton.

"Excuse me, but why does your cab smell like radiation?" I asked.

"No reason," he replied quickly. Too quickly.

"And why is your family decapitated?" I asked.

"Because they asked too many questions, something that you seem to be doing too," He replied.

"I was just curious. And why do you like your brain tumors so much?"

"Shut up," he demanded in a voice so harsh that I knew that I had to obey. Then he started speaking on his radio system. He spoke in Pakistanian, or Arabic, but since I spent my life rding in taxis, I understood it. What he said goes as follows: "Hello, Saddam, I have found The Cobra," he started to say. I was annoyed that he couldn't tell I was The Rattlesnake. I was surprised when I heard the reply, for it truly was Saddam Hussein. I knew that the radio they spoke into couldn't reach half way around the world, so therefore I knew that Saddam Hussein had to be close by. Saddam Hussein was in New York City.

The reply sounded like this, "Good. Let him out of the cab. I'll send my army to get him."

"Okay. By the way, have you had your meeting with Jehaar the Funky Terrorist from Pakistan yet? You know, the secret truce?" Shing Labing asked.

"Oh yeah, that. He's a nice guy. We went down to 42nd street and blew up a building together. I met with Muhammed Ali too. He wasn't as nice a guy, so all we did was have a smoke," Saddam replied. "Having a smoke" is taxi driver talk for ligthing fire to an American Flag.

"And you are still friends with Rakish Ahmed, correct?"

"Of course. I didn't see him today, though."

Since I understood them, I knew I had to get out of that cab immediately. "Excuse me Shing Labing? May I leave the cab?" I asked.

"Okay. This is Shing Labing reminding you to take your baggage and a receipt," he said. I left.

Five minutes later, true to Saddam's word, I was surrounded by terrorists and driven off to a Pakistanian candy store. The store was full of Warheads, (the candy), in the front, and when when they opened a hidden door in the back of the store I noticed that it was full of the other kind of Warheads too. I saw Saddam Hussein, Jehaar the Funky Terrorist from Pakistan, Muhammed Ali, Shing Labing and Rakish Ahmed in the room chatting with eachother.

"So, on Wednesday, since the USA will be blown to Kingdom Come, let's take out Hawaii," suggested Shing Labing.

"And then we do Puerto Rico," continued Rakish Ahmed.

"No, then we do Alaska," corrected Saddam Hussein.

"And I get to do Guam!" exclaimed Jehaar the Funky Terrorist from Pakistan.

"Splendid," summarized Muhammed Ali. Then Saddam Hussein saw me.

"Ah, hello. How are you doing today? I hope this doesn't inconvenience you," Saddam Hussein greeted me.

"Oh, no, not in the least," I informed him sarcastically.

"I am Jehaar the Funky Terrorist from Pakistan, employer of There Is Something Wrong With My Madula Oblingata Car Services. And somehow I think I know you. Maybe I met you in a past life as a barnacle. And you were but a sugar cube. Hahaha! I am but funny as the man on the Haagen Daas ice cream box! Hoo hoo hoo! I am hoating with laughter!" the man said. I knew him, as a matter of fact. It was Nga Nga, my boss.

"Nga Nga, what is this all about?" I demanded.

"I am not Nga Nga, I am Charlie the Horse. My purpose in life is to send out a chain letter of cramps and nay. And eat hay. Hurray!!!!" He yelled.

"Yes, we know. Nga Nga is your boss. Only his name isn't Nga Nga, and he didn't inherit all the money from his father. His name really is Jehaar the Funky Terrorist from Pakistan, and he got the money from an oiling black market. His mother is John L. Singh. He hired you to spy on our companies, because behind that crazy outside there is an ingenious mind. But then we decided not to be rivals and blow up the evil USA together. You could have been fired and got on with your life, but you just had to catch on to the fact that our drivers were terrorists in disguise, didn't you?" Saddam Hussein inquired.

"I only found out about your conspiracy today," I informed them.

"Oh," Shing Labing said in a puzzled voice. "Well, you know now, so we must kill you anyway."

"Yes. Muhammed, you may show him to your torture chamber," Saddam Hussein said.

"Scrrru. I traded it with Rakish for his spare anti-traffic weapons array," Muhammed said.

"Yes, I have possession of it now. But you can explain it, Muhammed," Rakish permitted him.

"Ah. It is simple, but it works. We trap you in big white room and you must listen to Celine Dion for five hours straight," Muhammed said gleefully.

"AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!" I screamed. They led me into the chamber, and put on earphones. Then they put the CD on and walked outside. There they observed me via a one-way mirror. I knew what had to be done. I had to rip off my ears. Although it would be painful, the was no way I could comprehend the pain of listening to too much Celine Dion. I tried ripping off my ears, but the horrible sound had hit my brain. It made my fingers too tense to be of that much use. I reached into my pocket and pulled out a swiss army knife. With it I clumily cut both ears off. Fortuneately, the music was so horrible that it had disconnected me from all feeling, so I didn't feel the pain. After the numbness died, so had most of the pain. They walked into the room with their headphones and turned the music off. They had to think of a new torture device. I couldn't hear their thoughts for my obvious reasons, and they weren't psyched about that. I thought I saw them mouth "stupid Americans" a couple of times, and though I'm not the expert lip reader I knew that Muhammed said "scrrru". Then Rakish wrote on the back of a big piece of construction paper which assumedly had their plans to destroy the USA, "Are you patriotic?" I responded that yes, I was. They replied, "Good. We are going to take you along with us on our 'Saddam, Shing Labing, Jehaar, Rakish, and Muhammed Do America' escavade.

This operation took a while. Usually, I would have done something, but they immediately straightjacketed me. The first thing they did was bring their super-copter over the White House and call up Bill Clinton. Saddam spoke. "Hey, Bill, I got a plane hovering over your house. I'll drop an A-bomb on it if you don't meet our demands," Saddam said. I knew this because Shing Labing translated it to me. I did not catch what Bill replied, but I know that they started thinking about just what their demands would be. Shing Labing wanted everybody's brain tumors removed and given to him. Muhammed Ali wanted Joe Frazier put to death. Jehaar wanted a sombrero to put upon a sea urchin and a clock with which to put on top of a toaster. Rakish and Saddam just wanted a bunch of weapons. I knew that they were just to do Alaska, Hawaii, Puerto Rico... and Guam afterwards, but the terrorists also had had the good sense to gag me.

The next day I had learned quickly how to read lips, but more importantly you couldn't turn on the television without seeing reports on this calamity. When I went on AOL all I heard was about it. A lot of people thought that parts of the demands were a little bit psycho, and, personally, I felt the same way. I decided to ask Shing Labing all about his obsession with brain tumors.

"Shing Labing," I asked.

"Yes? Speaking to you at this moment is Shing Labing! The best brain tumor collector in the world!" he shouted jubilously.

"I just wanted to know about your obsession with brain tumors," I informed him. "Shut up, I don't want to talk about it."

"Wait a minute, Shing Labing. I just got a good idea. Tak the Rattlesnake is a man that knows the mystery of America Online. If we just tell him this one little thing, he could get us a website of our own. That will be very good. And he can advertise it too. Yes!!! It will be very good!" Rakish said.

"Very good idea Rakish, but remember that it is a very painful memory for Shing Labing. How about we have a smoke and talk about it?" Saddam suggested.

"Yes! Very good idea! But I regret to inform you that our defense system is broken right now. I would love to burn down another building, but I think that it would be better if I guarded Rattlesnake," Muhammed told him.

"Ok. We will be outside. How about we wander down to 87th and Broadway? I saw a news report taking place there and people were saying discomplimentary things about us. Let's go burn it down," Saddam suggested.

"Okay, bye!" Muhammed said. A few minutes after he left, he turned on the TV. A report on his particular demand was on. His demand was that Joe Frazier die. I noticed that MTV was the station he had flipped it to, and Jesse Camp was reporting.

"Yo, I heard that Joe Frazier was demanded to die so I gots a cab to go check it out," he said, followed by a "And on the way we gonna listen to some really cool rock n' roll!" He said, and made the symbol that he always did. When it came back to Jesse I noticed that the cab was driving through New Pakistan, which had recently been created in between Chinatown and Tribeca. I noticed that it was driving outside of OUR HOUSE. "Yo, that was Metallica, and we're right outside the terrorists' house. We gonna get out, but first let's hear some Slayer!!!" he said, and made the symbol again. When the video was over, I saw and heard a knock on the door, and saw a cameraman and Jesse Camp come inside. "Yo, this is Jesse Camp from MTV. How y'all doin'? Yo, I was just wondering where the guy was that wanted Joe Frazier to die?" Jesse asked.

"That was I!" Muhammed yelled.

"Yo! Really? Why is this? I mean, can't we all just get along?"

"AAAAAAAH! Muhammed Ali was a great man! Joe Frazier had to beat up on him, didn't he?" Muhammed asked.

"Uh, yeah, and what's your name?" Jesse asked.

"It is Muhammed Ali. I legally changed it a year ago."

"What was it before all dat happened?" Jesse asked.

"Akbar Bhutama," Muhammed told him.

"Yo, that's cool. Now we're gonna check out some more rock n' roll, and then an MTV news with Serena Altschul," Jesse said. The video was by Greenday, and then Serena came on.

"It has been rumored that the terrorists that you all have been hearing about are going to team up and do a video for the Pakistanian Hoky Poky. These are untrue but what is true is that there is a huge fire on 87th and Broadway and this should be avoided if at all possible," She said, while Jesse was talking with the camera man on what to shoot next.

They decided to leave and go to Joe Frazier to see what he thought about it. We turned the TV off.

"Scrrru. Stupid Americans. Stupid MTV VJs," Muhammed muttered. Muhammed didn't often talk. He did, however, mutter.

"Look, while I'm around, don't dis MTV," I told him.

"Excuse me?" he asked. He was talking now. "YOU are the hostage, not me. Therefore I may do all I want, and YOU may do all I say. Kapish?" He asked.

"Kapish," I muttered. When they came back, they had decided not to tell me.

The next day the U.N. had a few questions for my Pakistanian friends. One of them asked Saddam whether they would seriously take out Iowa if one little brain tumor wasn't delivered.

"Oh, you are questioning our authority? If you live in Rhode Island, then I am so sorry," Saddam said. He pressed a button. Though we were in New York, we could still feel the Earth shake from the bomb's impact.

"Scrrru. Stupid Americans. Ask too many questions," Muhammed muttered.

"Thank you, Saddam. In answer to your question, ALL BRAIN TUMORS MUST BE DELIVERED!" Shing Labing yelled.

"Well, why brain tumors? Why not broken kneecaps or something else of the subject?" a member of the audience asked.

"Shut up."

"No, I want to know."

"Really?"

"Yes, really," the audience member replied. Rakish picked up a sniper rifle, and that ended that. Actually, the person's last scream ended that.

"Oopsies," Rakish said of the subject.

"Have you killed Joe Frazier yet?" Muhammed asked.

"We are in the process of doing so. He has ran away from our assasins," The U.N. official informed Muhammed.

"Get a cameraman, and get it on tape," Muhammed demanded. After the other happenings of today, nobody complained.

The next day, the demands had been completed, including Jehaar's. He didn't care. Today he was convinced that he was a clock that went ding. Joe Frazier had been found in Oklahoma, and shot. Muhammed was busy watching the video. The various weapons had been delivered, and while Muhammed was watching the tape muttering "scrrru" over and over Rakish and Saddam were busy loading them into their shooter. Too many brain tumors to count had been delivered at midnight. All though I said too many, Shing Labing was busy counting them. For an hour I forced to sit on a couch in a straightjacket, and then finally there was something to notice other than the sniper pulling the trigger, Jehaar going ding, and the running faucet. Shing Labing ran out screaming. "Fake! They are fake! One of the brain tumors are fake!" so loud that Rakish and Saddam came running in.

"Wonderful. This gives us a perfect excuse to backstab them. Go call up MTV," Saddam said. The next day MTV knocked on the door.

"Hello. I am Bobbin. How are you doing today? I am in charge of getting this done," Bobbin said. He sounded very weird, but at the same time very bored, and he had a very stupid looking smirk. Along with him was Jesse, a tall, fat man with big glasses, and the cameraman.

"We are doing marvelously. Now, we have to say something to the citizens of the USA," Saddam informed Bobbin. Bobbin still carries the same stupid smirk.

"Hello. I am Gary. I am in charge of your image. Now, let me hear you say 'grrrr.'" the tall, fat man said.

"Excuse me?" Rakish demanded.

"Well, you want to blow up the USA. You have to look angry! Now, I want you to look at the camera. First, Saddam, you will say, 'Yo, I am Saddam Hussein, and now check out the number one video of the week. This is-'"

Muhammed said his favorite word, and Shing Labing said, "Enough! What is going to happen, is that cameraman is going to press the button, and we are going to talk!"

"Okay, but work on what I told you," Gary said.

"Oky doky, fellas. And we're on in 1... 2... 3... action!" Bobbin said in that same stupid voice and that same stupid smirk.

Jesse started reading off the cue cards, and said, "Hello, MTV, this is Jesse Camp and I'm here with Sadd-em Hus- Hus- ee in, Shing Labing, Muhammed Alley, Jehaar the Funky Terrorist from Pakistan, and Rackish Ammed." He was not a very skillful reader.

"Hello, MTV! I am sorry, but if you are in America then you are going to die today," Rakish said.

"Yo, why's that, dude?"

"Shing Labing, please tell us," Saddam said.

"One of the brain tumors was fake!" Shing Labing accused.

"Oh, yo! I feel for y'all! Now, before we discuss exactly how bad all this is, let's check out some cool rock 'n-" Jesse started to say.

"Scrrru. No rock 'n roll videos! This is serious! You treat as if was joke!" Muhammed accused.

"Yes. Brain tumors are no joke," informed Shing Labing.

"Okay, yo. I just thought y'all might like ta get yo groove on to the premier of the new-"

"Well whatever it is, we would not. Since the brain tumor was fake, we are going to blow up the USA tomorrow. I shall call in my air force blocking off all transportation out of America. Just incase you try to flee to Canada, we are nuking that at the moment. If you are a Pakistanian immigrant, we are making a getaway station in Mexico. Leave for there right away. Tomorrow, all of you will die," Saddam Hussein said. After he informed the USA of what was to happen to them, all of the terrorists laughed a gruesome laugh. All except for Jehaar. He laughed weirdly, not gruesomely.

"Hoo hoo ho! I am the one that blocked the cow from jumping over the moon! Jump, crash! Eee hee hee! I killed the cow! Splat! There are bones on the moon to prove it!"

"Okay, okay, dude! Yo! Anyway, Shong Laboratory or whatever your name is-"

"It is Shing Labing!"

"Okay, Shing Labing, why d'ya like brain tumors so much?" Jesse asked.

"Shut up!"

"Why, yo?"

"Shut up!"

"No, I wanna know."

"I said SHUT UP!"

"No, yo!"

"Okay! I will tell you! But remember that I am going to kill you!"

"Well, yo, ya gonna kill everybody."

"Okay. It is because I once went to a fortune teller..."

"Yeah?"

"And she said that I was a cow in every live but this one, and always would be!"

"Yo!"

"And then she died right then and there of a brain tumor!" Shing Labing finished.

"Really? Yo!"

"Yes. I am now mentally ill because I am knowing that I'm always going to be a cow!" Shing Labing screamed.

"Yo, that's a great story. Now that we know whatcha gonna do and why, can we show the rock 'n roll videos?" Jesse asked.

"Fine!" all the terrorists yelled.

"Yo, thanks a lot! This is the world premier of-" Jesse said, and then the ground began to shake. Canada had been blown up, but Jesse went on as enthusiastically as ever, "Motley Crue's comeback video! Yo, they comin' back! Catch them on MTV Live tomorrow performing this new song, "Keep on Rocking" live!!!!!! Yeah!" Jesse said, he made his symbol, and then we were off air and the video came on. He just didn't understand. There would be no tomorrow.

And so there wasn't, for America anyway. But Pakistan went on strongly forever. Or, at least, I'm guessing they did. I wouldn't know, because I was killed along with the rest of the Americans.