
It had been one of those days. John, a weary truck driver, just wanted to crawl home, eat something fried, and fall asleep in front of the TV. But living in Washington D.C. meant only one thing at rush hour—traffic hell.
Sure enough, he slammed on the brakes as a traffic jam appeared ahead—a monster jam, bigger than his mother-in-law’s opinion of herself.
He hadn’t heard anything on the radio, so he leaned out the window, hoping for answers. All he saw were cars at a standstill, people pacing, and one guy eating Pringles like his life depended on it.
Then—knock knock!—a man tapped on his window.
“What’s going on?” John asked, already regretting it.
The guy said gravely, “Terrorists have kidnapped the entire U.S. Congress.”
John’s eyes went wide. “Holy cheeseballs!”
“They’re demanding a hundred million dollars in ransom,” the man continued.
John whistled. “That’s more than Congress spends on coffee!”
“If they don’t get it, they’re gonna douse ’em in gasoline and set them on fire.”
John blinked. “Mercy, that’s rough!”
The man nodded. “We’re going car to car, collecting donations.”
John frowned. “How much are people pitching in?”
The man shrugged. “About a gallon each.”
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