text: [Themes: modern, humor]
  
  You are out early one Monday morning, making your rounds on your orange postie bike. Ripping it up, downhill on Castingham Street, disaster strikes! One of the bags full of letters falls off the side of your bike, sending paper everywhere. This is not the only problem - your bike is now unbalanced, and is starting to wobble!
  
  > swerve to the right
  You swerve to the right, towards 66 Castingham Street. It is common practice for Mr. Jones to park his rusting Ford Valiant out on the front verge, and unfortunately you slam straight into this car, fly off your bike, smash through the front window of the Jones residence, slide across their breakfast table while they are eating, get covered in egg and bacon, tumble onto the floor and lie there, stunned, while the Jones family dog trots up and licks all the food off you.
  "Good Lord Horatio! What is the meaning of this?", asks Mr. Jones.
  "Sorry Mr.Jones", you mumble.
  
  The next day you are fired from the Post Office for causing hundreds of dollars in damage to your bike, the Ford Valiant and the Jones's window. You need a new job.
  
  > French Foreign Legion
  You find it surprisingly easy to join the French Foreign Legion, and only a few weeks later you are stationed in the jungles of Africa in the Ivory Coast. Apparently France has decided to start invading Africa, and you are on the front line.
  
  Living in the jungles of Africa is not all it's cracked up to be. There's no TV or comfy couches, and you have to use leaves for toilet paper. On top of that, you accidentally used some kind of poisonous flower for toilet paper last night and your rear end is now covered in hives.
  
  You are sitting in a trench, rubbing your sore ass and hiding from the action, when your sergeant jumps in with you, seeking momentary shelter from the gunfire. Just as he is about to ask you what you're doing here - as ooposed to gunning down Ivory Coastians - a live frag grenade sails through the air and lands in between the two of you!
  
  > Bail
  He's a trained sergeant in one of the greatest fighting units in the world, right? So you're sure he can handle climbing out of a trench and throwing himself onto the ground. This thought is a small consolation against your cowardice as you sprint off through the jungle - there is a blast behind you, and his hand flies onto the ground in front of you.
  
  Well, you just let your CO die. There's no way you're going back. You melt off into the jungle, leaving your comrades and enemies to duke it out in a jungle battle, with grenades and tanks and assault rifles. You're probably missing out on some great fun, but that's your bad.
  
  > run off into the dense African jungles
  You soon realise that you are lost. Pushing your way through dense undergrowth and sweating heavily in the hot tropical humidity, you struggle to understand where you are. A cloud of mosquitoes hangs above your head, and tiny biting things worm their way into your clothes.
  
  A green flickering becomes visible through the trees ahead. Crashing through the foilage towards it, you stumble into a clearing.
  
  A large machine, somewhat resembling a telephone booth but without the telephone or graffitti tags, sits in the middle of the clearing emitting a green light. An old, withered Norweigan man is sitting beside it.
  
  "Hello, ja", he says. "Mine name is Gary. Vould you like to be usingk my Teleport Machine?"
  
  "Um, sure", you say. "If it can get me out of this jungle."
  
  "It can get choo anyvere, ja? But I vill be needing ja payment."
  
  You don't have any money. What will you be paying him with?
  
  > Your FAMAS assault rifle
  You ruefully hand your assault rifle over to the Norweigan, who inspects it and nods his head. The he indicates for you to hop inside the teleport pod.
  
  "Vhere vould you like to go, cha?", he asks.
  
  > The offices of Australia Post
  You step into the teleport machine and gary pulls the lever. A blinding green light sourrounds you, and all of a sudden you find yourself standing in the offices of Australia post, in Perth.
  Right in front of the manager's desk.
  He looks up from the paperwork he's filling out, and looks at you in shock and disbelief. "Postie!", he growls. "What the hell are you doing here? You were fired!"
  You open your mouth to explain, but an instant later two burly bgodyguards standing by the door grab you and shove you inside a cardboard box full of styrofoam macaroni. The flaps are forced down and you hear duct tape being wound around the box. Then a felt-tip pin scratches some writing on it, you are manahandled down some stairs, into a small dark space, and you hear a car engine start. After much slipping and sliding, you are unloaded at Perth International Airport - you can hear the planes. After a 24-hour plane trip, the duct tape is unwound and you burst out, gulping in fresh air. Then you look around.
  
  > Where could you be?
  Welcome to New York! The Big Apple! Greatest city in the Western World!
  Skyscrapers line the horizon, commuters bustle along the busy streets and taxis hoot and tonk in the busy traffic. The enormous urban landscape makes your home town of Perth feel quite small. Which it is.
  
  You ruefully hand your assault rifle over to the Norweigan, who inspects it and nods his head. The he indicates for you to hop inside the teleport pod.
  
  "Vhere vould you like to go, cha?", he asks.
  
  > China
  You step into the teleport machine. A green light envelops you as Gary pulls the lever, and seconds later you find yourself in a bustling market in Shanghai -
  - several feet above the ground.
  You drop down with a smash, reducing a handcart full of pears and apples to juice and splinters. The Chinese owner is incredibly angry. He shouts something incomprehensible in Mandarin, before pulling out a large club and beating you to death with it.