Black Friday: Wrong day to shop. My face is scrunched in fury as I churn the ground with my feet, driving my shopping cart forward. I’m racing a pack of soccer moms, and they’re snarling furiously, their botox-ed faces crackling with hate. One shoulders me—OOF—and I crumple sideways. I scrabble to my feet and I’m back in the mix. One chops at my legs with her purse and I leap straight up (Parkour!) and I land and keep running. Suddenly I see a quartet of them driving at me from my right, and BOOM, t-bone my cart. I hit the ground and the world goes slow-mo; everything is spinning, whirling….shit, this is the end….I’m sorry for the time I punched my brother in the belly after he ate two XL pizzas…sorry for the time I used the last piece of toilet paper and didn’t replace the roll…I open my eReader to Echo. Magic flash. An Iron Man drone swoops inward, carving a path through the moms with a repulsor ray salvo. It hooks my arms and picks me up, rocketing me through the store aisles in a series of tight, boot-jet driven turns. I grab what I’m looking for—a hard-to-find, deluxe edition of Mariah Carey’s Christmas stuff (yeah it’s my guilty pleasure, make fun if you want)—and scream into the sunset, whooping with delight.