Porkus busts a massive high pressure load of jism that clogs your throat. He reaches over to open your door. Then he slams the gas pedal while shoving you out of the squad car. You hit and roll into the ditch. No gas, no nothing. You vomit up jism and your earlier chicken salad with ranch sauce. What a freaking life. When will things start going right? Your arm really hurts, a raw patch of throbbing red wound weeping slow pulses of blood.