You stumble around and manage to switch off all the ovens. It's simply negligent, what some people do. Having averted a possible UNAMERICAN disaster, you take a quick swig of water, which goes a little way to making you feel better. You then proceed to look around for something to bandage your arm with... nothing apart from what you're wearing, so you tear off a long strip from your apron. Ahhh, damn it, the apron is now unwearable and must be discarded. What would Mr. Johnson say?
Oh wait, that's right. You wash the wound a bit, half emptying your bottle in the process and bandage the wound. It still hurts like anything but at least the thought of infection can be pushed from your mind. Now... pie. Good American apple pie, like your momma used to make. Presumably she still does. A quick search turns up... oh my God! Yes! PIE! YOU'VE FOUND PIE! You set about to cooking it. Looks like it'll take around five minutes before it's piping hot like any proper apple pie. You busy yourself by searching through your backpack. You find some rations (unAmerican rations) and a about five more sticks of ammunition. Also, a small book, but you can't make head or tails of the tight packed writing. Ah well. You empty the water bottle and fill it from the tap. Now it's fit for an American to drink.
The pie is almost done. In a sudden fit of despair, you pull out the Colt 45, place it under your chin and pull the trigger, before holstering it again.
Wounded:
Left arm (deep scratch) (bandaged) (healing)
Wearing:
Mask of Sensibility
Stained but still sensible pants
Sensible shoes
Inventory:
Wallet ($90)
Wrist Watch (9:09)
Valium (too much)
Scum
Sock ($1000)
Colt 45 (0/0)
Babe Ruthless (PATRIOTIC) (proficient) (bayonet)
Backpack (5 clips - Thompson) (Rations - unAmerican) (book - gibberish)
Water bottle (full)
Wielding - Thompson (both hands) (average)
Mental State:
Oh man I am really hungry right now. Pie.