Die Hard: With a Pension.
It was go-time. Just off from the night shift, John had his eye on Quick Mart's last box of powdered doughnuts, and there was no fucking way that the broad with the big ass and the mustache was going to get to them before he did. He'd had to sit through yet another of the chief's lectures on protocol, and You're not getting any younger and It sure would suck if you got fired before you could get retirement pay, wouldn't it? He wanted those fucking donuts.
He was inches away from the prize, smoothly stepping in front of the fat chick with his elbows ready to knock her to hell in case she tried anything funny--and then the ground disappeared.
His feet touched earth again a minute later and he looked around.
He was not in the Quick Mart.
Obviously he'd gone through a portal of some kind. He was definitely going to fuck the jerkweed who had come up with that technology...with a hammer.
"This is the Champion we get when Harry calls in sick?"
The only reason he heard the question over the screams and the sizzle of lasers in the air was because the girl who'd spoken was standing right next to him, eyeing him skeptically. The place was crawling with robed nut-jobs. She was one of them.
A guy who was probably the girl's brother—six-three, red hair, beanpole—elbowed the girl and muttered something to her about not insulting someone's (Harmony's?) summoning spell. Then the guy glanced at him somewhat apologetically. "Terribly sorry," the guy said, sounding frazzled, "but would you mind killing that bloke over there? We aren't doing very well at it, ourselves."
John glanced over. Looked like a typical power-mad villain, too busy ordering his followers to vaporize anything that moved to realize that black robes and white masks hadn't been in style for about a few centuries. Not that the blue ones the redhead beanpole and his sister were wearing looked any better.
Maybe a little gayer.
"We'll talk about payment later," he told the redhead, who nodded. Less talk, more killing. John wondered how much he could take them for. Probably a lot.
Then he slipped his guns into his hands and did what he did best--took down the bad guy.
"Yippy-kye-yay, motherfucker."
One power-mad villain down for the count, one retirement fund magically resurrected.