The scene:
An ambulance crowded with drunken revelers in a manner that defies all logic is speeding down an open highway, leaving carnage and devastation in its wake, when, unnoticed, a small, red, beat up station wagon which is inexplicably travelling at speeds well over 140 mph pulls up alongside. The driver gestures for the ambulance to pull over. This the ambulance driver(s) ignore. The driver of the station wagon whips out a large gun and proceeds to blow several holes in the side of the ambulance. Having gained their attention, the driver again signals for the ambulance to pull over. This time, after much swerving, they comply. As soon as the ambulance comes to a halt, several individuals jump out, run into the woods, and relieve themselves. The driver(s) roll down the window.
Out of the station wagon steps a very tall woman wearing a tight leather outfit that is apparently supposed to be sexy, but looks absolutely ridiculous on her. However, due to the gun, nobody is laughing. She points the gun menacingly at the nearest of the various ambulance drivers.
“Anyone care to explain this?”
From behind her back, she produces a cardboard box. Opening it, she reveals a bald, scorched, bruised cat with a tire track across its belly. It mews weakly.
“I’d like you all to meet Ginger. She had the dubious distinction of attending your little party. And now look. She’s on her last life. What kind of monsters are you?”
Says one of the drivers: “The wombat! Sure, I- Ow!”
The driver who elbowed the first one interjects “No. N’idea. I wash just drivin’ along, see…”
A third one adds: “Buuuurrp!”
Suddenly, the back of the ambulance opens, and a rather bedraggled-looking woman steps out. “I can explain everything. If you’ll just look back here…”
The leather-clad woman follows her to the back of the van. Just as she rounds the corner, she hears “…ready…set…”, a flatulent noise, a match being lit, and a loud FWOOOOOOOM! The driver(s) of the ambulance floor it, leaving a streak of rubber on the shoulder, and showering their tormentor with gravel. And their tormentor? She stands alone, smoldering, cradling an even more scorched cat. Raising her gun heavenward, she shouts after the ambulance, receding in the distance “I won’t forget this! I’ll track you down! I’ll come down upon you like the wrath of GOD! I’ll SUE!!! Hell hath no fury like a woman whose pussy has been shaved, set on fire, and run over, you better believe it!”
Then, turning to the cat, she mutters “…mind if I smoke?” The cat, in no condition to endure a pun of that magnitude, dies.
“That’s entertainment!” —Vlad the Impaler