Realizing that Herman is quite mad, you use the nearest thing available -
the briefcase he gave you - to smash him in the face. Its considerable
weight combined with its stylish coating cause Herman's Dale head to spin around on his neck and cave in, clamping down on his throat and causing him to pass out on the floor. You vaguely remember reading about this particular safety flaw in the 4.02 version of Dale heads in Disneyslave Monthly. Hey, give yourself a break. You were at the dentist's and he was drilling a screamer. Anyway, you search through Herman's filth-lined pockets and extract a pair of keys. Score!

Outside, you find the white van that Herman hit you with. There's still a
little blood on the hood, and several tufts of hair in various colors, none
of which seems to match yours. You set yourself down behind the wheel, start the car, and ride off! It's time to get Pestilential Pete's treasure!

You find your way back to the highway with relative ease. It's a sunny day, there's few cars on the road and through a miracle stroke of coincidence, Herman's voice-activated car stereo is programmed with all your favorite radio stations. You feel like a million dollars! It turns out you were already pretty close to Disneyworld, so about twenty minutes later, you find yourself standing at the foot of the mighty Epcot Center. The first person you question about the next location on your map knows exactly what you're talking about and points it out to you. So, you're off again.

From there on, things seem to get just easier. You skim past Popeye's Chicken, make a quick stop at the Lincoln Monument, and slide through Arnold Schwarzenegger's Severed Head. Finally, you've reached the great X Marks The Spot, the motherload, the target of your long but fairly peril-less journey... that is when you realize something important.

Ever notice how, if you're forced to listen to a sound for a very long period of time, your mind adapts to filter it out and not notice it anymore? Like, say, the sound of a clock? On the passenger's seat next to you, defying all of your efforts, still lies Herman's ticking briefcase "Ticky". Your initial shock is washed away by the thought that since it's been ticking for the past three weeks that you've been on the road, it's probably not going to stop ticking anytime soon. Impeccable logic, Socrates. But perhaps you've forgot about a little thing called Murphy's Law.

An artist's rendition of the resulting explosion.

Before you can make any more baffling conclusions, the briefcase erupts in a blast of fiery doom, scattering your vital organs halfway across the continent. You left your heart in San Francisco, your kidneys are on the midnight train to Georgia and your gall bladder is now a part of New York, New York. No treasure for you!

START OVER, YOU IDIOT!