I was a teenage psychic detective, trying to solve a case and win a bike. So, I headed over to Stephen King’s house—he was blind and in a wheelchair—and told him I knew who had tried to kill him: the mafia, of course. Then, his bitchy young wife and haughty mother-in-law kicked me out.
On the way out, I ran into a messenger (who looked a lot like my mom) delivering a skateboard for Mr. King. This was obviously a threat from the mob, so I ran back in and started yelling for everyone to “Get the fuck out; they’re coming for you!”
Then, for reasons I don’t know, I was suddenly driving a road-safe bathtub (filled with Italian rap CDs) down the highway. I slammed through a gate and drove straight into the ocean. I managed to swim to the pier and climb out just as the bathtub blew up underwater. Then, as I was winding my way through some crates to escape undetected, I ran into Biggie Smalls, who was actually a small Asian woman with a gun.
And then I woke up. No idea if I won the bike.
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