This is a story I wrote for my writing portfolio in school. It's already been turned in so critique, while appreciated and encouraged, isn't absolutely necessary. Enjoy:

A harsh shrill plagued the ears of John Paul Jones as he sat playing his bass guitar in the small, cramped studio. That sound could only mean one thing, someone was in trouble. The Trouble Alarm only went off in the direst situations. He placed his bass down quickly, but carefully, and rushed out the door.
He hopped into his navy blue ’95 Ford Galaxy and turned it on. It responded with a dull roar and leveled off at a muted hum. He put the car into drive and started to pull out when he realized he was in the middle of a conundrum. He was trapped in the middle of a double parking triple team.
The first car, the one blocking him from the front, was a silver Datsun B110 with what looked like a punched out tail light. The car actually double-parking him was a light blue Jeep Comanche with an angry looking man in the drivers’ seat. The car preventing him from backing out of his predicament was a black Range Rover Sport with tinted windows.
John beeped his horn sharply three times, the universal sign for “Let me out, I’m being double parked.” The three menacing cars didn’t respond positively. Actually, The Datsun B110 responded by backing even closer to John’s car. The Datsun was now almost touching the Galaxy, and John was getting fed up with the whole situation.
However, John wasn’t going to call the cops or get out and punch anyone; after all, he was a reasonable, civilized man. Instead he simply pressed the gas pedal down to the floor and hoped for the best.
The Ford Galaxy shot forward in a blur of navy blue and chrome. The rear of the Datsun was obliterated instantly and the driver was thrown, safely, on the street in front of the car. John then went into reverse and again pushed the pedal to the floor. The driver bailed out at the last second before his car too was shattered by the sheer force of John’s Ford Galaxy.
John then turned the steering wheel all the way to the left, put the car in drive, and once again, and for the last time, put the pedal all the way to the floor. The driver of the Comanche saw this and he too bailed out. The Ford Galaxy collided with the side of the Comanche and pushed it all the way across the street.
John just needed to finish his Y-turn and he was free. He sped off to the Led Zeppelin Trouble Prevention Center, which was right next to the recording studio. When he arrived at the Led Zeppelin Trouble Prevention Center, he ran through the revolving doors at the entrance.
He missed the exit the first time and had to go around again. The second time he missed again and started to get frustrated; but he kept his cool and tried again. The third time was the charm because he flew out of the revolving door and straight onto the front desk.
“’Ello miss, Agent Paul Jones responding to a Trouble Alarm call,” he said with a charming smile.
“Hm…well I’ll look it up,” she said as she starting typing swiftly. She was searching the infinite database of Trouble. John started to get impatient. Finally, three minutes of typing later she replied, “Ah, yes, it seems there is a kitty stuck in a tree on 4th Street. You better hurry sir; it says the cat’s been up there for five minutes already!”
“Whoa! That cat’s a trooper! I better get going!” he screamed so everyone in the front lobby could hear him. He turned around to face the revolving door again, but hesitated; he was slowly building up his courage. After a full minute of staring the revolving door down, he slowly approached it.
He then turned to the front window of the building and jumped through it. In a rain of glass and plaster he landed on the front lawn and started running. He didn’t quite know where he was going, so he just kept running straight. Then he heard a shout.
“Mr. Paul Jones! 4th Street is that way!” said a man with a bundle of sticks on his back. John wasn’t quite sure how the sticks were staying on his back, but they were there and 4th Street was that way so that way he turned and started running.
He arrived at a street sign that read “4th Street” and decided that since that was the street he was looking for he might as well head down it and look for any trees. Luckily for John and the cat stuck in a tree, there was only one tree on 4th Street. The local children called it “The 4th Street Tree”; rumors say they call it that because the tree is on 4th Street, but that’s just a rumor.
John spotted the tree and ran towards it. Suddenly and seemingly out of no where, “Chariots of Fire” could be heard playing all along 4th Street. Time slowed to as John sprinted towards the cat. A little girl was standing by the tree crying for her dear kitty cat, and that inspired John to run even faster.
When he was about 10 feet from the tree he leapt. If this story was an action film he would have cleared the 10 feet easily and landed in the tree, right next to the cat. But this isn’t an action film and John Paul Jones did not land in the tree. He did, however, clear the 10 feet.
John awoke a few hours later in the hospital. There was a nurse standing over him with a cold rag that she was intending to place on his forehead. As she bent over to place it, he stopped her hand and whispered, “Is…the…cat…ok?”
“Mr. Paul Jones, look to your left,” said the nurse with a smile that only a nurse can pull off. John looked to his left and saw a cat lying on the bed next to his. The cat was connected to an I.V. and the heart beat monitor was showing a slow, but steady pulse. “He’ll pull through Mr. Paul Jones, and it’s all thanks to you. You’ve done a service to this community.”
“But…I didn’t…land in the…tree,” said John questioningly.
“Well, when you collided with the tree, it shook vehemently and that forced the cat to fall out into the little girl’s hands. Without you that cat might not have made it.”
John leapt out of bed with newly restored vigor. He did a couple of jumping jacks and then leapt out the window of the hospital room, eager to finish his bass guitar playing for the day.
John awoke a few hours later in the hospital. There was a nurse standing over him with a cold rag that she was intending to place on his forehead. As she bent over to place it, he stopped her hand and whispered, “This…room is on the…second floor…isn’t it?”
“Yes Mr. Paul Jones, it is.”