1: Fight a gorilla with a machete.
2: Run an ultra-marathon after loosing my leg in aforementioned fight with gorilla.
3: Use every prescription painkiller currently on the market recovering from fight with gorilla and subsequent ultra-marathon.
4: Recover from yet another brutal set of injuries after Mister Jones and me, stumblin' through the barrio , stare at the beautiful women, thus ending up having to fight every Cholo who got pissed that we were eying his Ruca. Thus winding up in the hospital with three gunshot wounds from a 9mm, two from a .45, and, one from the odd .25ACP (Who even carries those anymore?). Mister Jones wouldn't be so lucky. He would die three days later from injuries sustained while he protected me from a 7'2" Coloumbian immigrant with a cheating wife and a Louisville Slugger with a railroad spike jammed through it.
Four months after his death I would recieve a manilla envelope in the mail with no return address, inside, there would be two Polaroids, one of Maria, the Spanish Dancer "cutting it up" as Mister Jones would say. The other of a homestead in Venezuela with Mister Jones' favorite hat perched atop the mailbox, the address clearly visible.
5: And lastly punch Adam Duritz in the face for performing that song which made me wildly imagine the scene from number four.