You are Pablo Escobar. You put the crime in the coconut and drink it all up. (Break glass) The blood is red, and so is the wine. And now you have to go back into the jungle and kill your mother for her coca leaves. You will need a machete, because if she knows you're here she'll send out some of her men with machetes. They will cut off your head, but that's okay. The blood will be worth it. (Break glass) So what does this mean? It means that you are no longer Pablo Escobar. > You are in hiding with a mariachi band that plays nothing but Whitesnake and Deff Leppard covers. "We are not the type of people who like to play music," says one man. "But we can play." They have instruments made from bamboo tubes and drums made from hollowed-out tree trunks. > You suggest to them that they are very talented at making instruments, and they should open a cute lil etsy shop if they want to get out of the music biz. "What do you think?" asks the leader. "Would you buy an instrument from us?" You say: "Yes! I would!" And then you ask: "How much?" "Ten thousand dollars." > You ignore their offer and hand them strands of Tony's hair. "I could use some hair gel," says one of the men. "Where did you find this?" "It was on his pillow." "This is his hair? He looks like he has really curly hair." You sweat. He sweats and realizes its the hair from his dead wife. "Give me the hair." He hands you the hair. You hold it up to your nose and sniff. "Smells funny," you say. The man nods. "Yeah, it smells like him." You realize the only people who had access to this hair were you... and your mother! Your mother bursts into the building with a semi automatic rifle and unloads on the mariachi band. She kills every single member of the band, including herself. (Break glass) Your mother dies in front of you. You drop the hair and fall to your knees. You are Pablo Escobar. You write a book about your experience and quit the drug life. The world needs more people who can appreciate the true value of cocaine. (Break glass) A voice speaks from behind you. "Can I help you?" You turn around and see a woman holding a tray full of drinks. She has long black hair and wears a tight white dress. Her eyes are dark brown. "I'm looking for someone," you say. She smiles. "Well, I can't help you there." She says, "Hey, your that guy that wrote that crappy book!" You smile. "I am." "That's great! I loved your book. But you left out something important." "Oh?" "Yes. You never got over your mother." You try to combat your on rushing emotional pain with a joke. "Ha ha ha, I thought you were going to say that I was missing a steamy sex scene". She doesn't laugh. Instead, she takes a step closer to you. "I just wanted to tell you that I love your work." You feel your heart begin to race. "Um..." "You know," she says. "I've been thinking about your book. I don't understand why you didn't include the part where you killed your mother." You shake your head. "No, that's not what happened." > You show the waitress an NFT of jars of farts that you spent your cocaine money on. "Do you smell anything?" you ask. She shakes her head. "I can't smell anything." "Well, I can smell a lot of things. This is a jar of my mother's fart." > You She is dumbfounded. Her late father kept and passed on jars of his farts. She suggests that your now single father should date her single mother, since both partners kept their farts in jars and that would be like a cute Hallmark movie if they got together and fell in love. "Well, that's a nice idea," says the woman. "Let me introduce myself. My name is Michelle." "Michelle?" "Yes. Michelle. That's a beautiful name. " > You marry Michelle and pass down jar of farts to your kids and then your grand kids. "My parents keep telling me that I need to get married and start having children," you say. "Well, that's wonderful news!" says Michelle. "Why don't you invite me over for dinner sometime soon?" T he jar is now worth: $30,000. You put the jar of farts in your pocket. "Sure. I'd love to have you over for dinner." "Great! I'll bring a bottle of wine.