Quimble McFam, Ma'am. If you don't mind me saying.
It was a crisp autumn evening, with a hint of smoke in the air. Dodging the sniper bullets, I slid into my lead-plated 1982 Toyota Corolla hatchback (BLING MUTHAFUCKA). I called it Edwin, and it didn't call me anything back, the fucker.
Edwin and I lumbered onto the freeway, gently nudging an SUV aside when it made the mistaken assumption that its weight was greater than that of the almighty Edwin. Praise Edwin.
I then started looking down the chores on my list. First, I secured a gross of Chicken McNuggets: 12 for me, 132 to pelt people with in downtown traffic (bonus points for in the sunroof).
Next, I snuck into a telco switchyard and acquired some equipment of telecommunative justice +1. This masterwork item secured, I lumbered off for where the real fun would start.
Edwin and I cut a patch through downtown traffic, nuggets blazing. Activating Edwin's heads up display (didn't your 1982 Corolla Hatchback come with one?), I called up a live map of the downtown traffic flow, eyeballed the turf, and eyeballed a route. Then I set the computer to calculate a mostly optimal route (I always like to do both... that way one catches the others mistakes).
Whitewall tires blazing, we were through the city in record time.
Edwin and I began to gain altitude, winding our way up the mountain... towards the headquarters of kitty. I was the first agent in my field to attempt such a standoff... What would happen?
FIND OUT NEXT TIME IN VERY VERMILLION VERMISSITUDE CHAPTER II