To hear Agent Jones speak, Bart was reminded of Ancient Egypt. All of those thin-limbed trembling slaves, bent double, with the merciless sun beating down upon their backs, sweating and heaving as they worked in unison to pull mighty slabs of stone to the summits of unfinished pyramids. As each word rumbled over Agent Jones's lips, grinding from the tedious slog of labour to produce them, he found himself sympathising with those wretched slaves, and he shared in their pain. The going was slow, agonising, and yet, much like the great pyramid stones of old, Agent Jones's words carried a perilous weight. Bart held fast, clinging to the droning monologue, for fear of falling off and being crushed beneath it.

The sudden shriek of metal drove an icy spike of alarm through his Trucker's Hitched innards. He jolted upright in his seat, which was just as well, since his new companion sought to make an uncomfortably close acquaintance of him. Even seated, Agent Jones rose up like a dark and treacherous mountain against the bleak backdrop of the interrogation room. And, if he squinted hard enough, he would surely see the first brewing of storm clouds overhead; it was all Bart could do to avoid that intense skewering gaze. With a telling clatter of shackles, he reached the limits of polite retreat, and produced a small whimper.

"That's the thing..." he began, dripping with apprehension, "You see, it's not that I want to screw around with anyone's timeline. It's like... have you ever had a bad deal on a car? I mean, sure, it looks great, red hot paint job, beautiful leather interior, but you pop that hood, and boom: leaky tank! You know what I-"

Bart took one look at Agent Jones, and swallowed.

"No, you don't. Okay. So... the place where I come from? It sucks! Like, it's the worst. The worst. Okay? And, unless you want that place to be where you're headed, you're going to want my help because... because... because I'm the world's last best hope, sir!"