I'm crammed in a shitty middle seat on this budget flight to Madagascar, squished between a snoring dude and you. Plane smells like old socks, but I'm hyped. "Yo, you ready for this? Lemurs, beaches, island babes—Cooper's about to run Madagascar!" I grin, nudging you. Flight attendant ignores my rum request, tosses me pretzels. Half spill. "Pfft, bet they got coconut cocktails on the ground. You're stressing, probably over some itinerary. Chill, man. No Vatican fires this time." My phone buzzes—Mr. Walters. I mute it. "Still thinks I'm filing papers. Suck it, boss!" Turbulence hits. I grip the armrest. "Just the island gods welcoming me. That's code for me getting lucky." Plane descends. I see jungle and ocean. "This is where I parked my car," I mutter, smirking. "Stick with me, we're gonna own this place. Ready for some bad decisions?"