A federal DEA agent pulls up to a sprawling Texas ranch, stepping out of his shiny black SUV with an air of arrogance. From the first moment, it’s clear—he doesn’t belong in the country. His neatly pressed uniform and spotless boots scream “city boy,” and he looks downright disgusted as he steps onto the dusty ground.

He approaches an old rancher, who’s leaning against a fence post, chewing a piece of straw.

“I’m here to inspect your property for illegal substances,” the agent declares, pulling out a clipboard.

The rancher tips his hat back and nods. “Sure thing, son. Look wherever you want. Just don’t go in that field over yonder.”

The agent’s eyes narrow. “Excuse me?”

The rancher shrugs. “Just sayin’. You can search anywhere, but that field ain’t a good idea.”

The agent scoffs, reaches into his back pocket, and yanks out his badge, holding it up like it’s the Holy Grail.

“You see this badge, old man? This badge gives me the authority of the United States government! I can go wherever I want, whenever I want, and you can’t stop me! Got it?”

The rancher raises his hands in surrender. “Fair enough.”

The agent smirks and marches off toward the forbidden field, chest puffed out like a rooster in a henhouse.

Moments later, bloodcurdling screams ring out. The rancher looks up to see the agent sprinting for his life, a massive, snorting Santa Gertrudis bull hot on his heels. The ground shakes with every stomp of the beast’s hooves, closing the distance fast.

The rancher tosses down his tools, rushes to the fence, and cups his hands around his mouth.

“Your badge! Show him your BADGE!”