Jason Statham wasn’t having a good day. His grocery list was half-finished, the self-checkout lane kept glitching, and now, as he hefted a bulging bag of oranges into the trunk of his car, two figures emerged from the shadows of the supermarket awning. Statham, with the honed instincts of a thousand action movie brawls, felt the tension crackle in the air.

He didn’t turn around, but his hand drifted casually towards the worn leather satchel nestled beside him – a satchel that most definitely didn’t contain his granny’s knitting needles. The men, clad in black and radiating menace, fanned out to flank him, their faces obscured by the dim glow of the streetlights. Statham slammed the trunk shut, the metallic clang echoing in the otherwise quiet parking lot. With a lightning-fast twist, he was facing them, a steely glint in his eyes that dared them to make the first move. And that’s when the unexpected happened… Instead of lunging at him, the two men froze, their bravado melting away.

“Uh, Mr. Statham?” one stammered, his voice cracking. “We, uh, we just wanted to say we’re huge fans.” Statham blinked, taken aback. He squinted at their outstretched hands, palms nervously sweating. In one hand was a crumpled grocery receipt, in the other, a well-worn DVD case – “The Transporter” emblazoned on the front. A hint of a smile played on Statham’s lips. Maybe today wouldn’t be so bad after all.