The doors will be opening soon. When they do, that cappuccino machine will be half off. Half off. Sure, your wife only drinks coffee, not cappuccino, but it’s half off. She will learn to like cappuccino, because you’re a cheap bastard.
Look at the rest of these amateurs in line. Sitting instead of standing, cramping themselves up ten minutes before the doors open. You will crush them like ants. You will feed off their screams as you forcefully pry the last cappuccino machine from their weak arms. It’s Black Friday, son. Some asses are gonna get boots in them.
Five minutes to go. The polite single-file line has dissolved into a vicious blob of anarchy, with feral spinsters and greedy cheapskates crowding and crushing each other against the entrance of the store. These are the people who will remain when the world ends. The most polite and helpful citizens from society won’t survive the apocalypse. Only the worst of humanity – the most devious, undermining savages our world has to offer – will endure the end times. Serial killers. Rapists. DMV and unemployment office employees. People who are mentally unstable or outright insane. They’re all here, waiting in line with you at Walmart. No one else would sleep on the sidewalk for three days just to save $40. Only greedy little psychopaths.
Naturally, you’re at the front of the line, pressed right against the doors. You know the people behind you won’t be satisfied with second place. As soon as those doors open, they’ll try to take you out. Maybe a quick kick to the shins to slow you down. Biting or spitting would not be unreasonable. One of them may be carefully severing the tendon in your hamstring at this very moment.
They call heavily discounted products “doorbusters”, but they’re really ballbusters, because at least six people behind you are going to try to kick you in the balls so they can get in the doors first. Good thing you were smart enough to wear a nut cup. People thought you were crazy for keeping your nut cup from high school football all these years, but who’s crazy now?
You need to pick your own targets to sabotage. Which fellow line dwellers look the fastest? Which seem the most clever? You’ve already tried chatting them up to figure out what they’re buying. None of them fell for the bait. They know better. That middle-aged guy looks like a cappuccino drinker. That son of a bitch. You’ll sweep the leg, and he’ll go down like a prostitute on Valentine’s Day. That old woman is drinking iced tea from Starbucks. That’s one step away from cappuccino. Better elbow her in the kidneys, just in case.
This isn’t just about the cappuccino machine. As you sat in line for nearly half a week, blissfully avoiding your loved ones, you realized it would be wasteful to only grab the item you want. You need to grab every deal you can and flip them all on Ebay. Baby clothes for $5? You don’t have kids, but some sucker on Ebay does. Some dumb rube out in the sticks who can’t stop milking the cows long enough to visit a real store. And what about those Nooks for $79? You don’t even know how to read, but I’ll bet someone on Ebay does. DVDs for $4? Hell yeah! Wait, there are used copies of these DVDs on Amazon for one cent. It’s a trick! Abort! Abort!
Cappuccino machine, cappuccino machine, cappuccino machine. Man, I really hope your wife learns to like cappuccino, because you are unreasonably amped on getting that thing. Through the last 74 hours of waiting in this godforsaken line, it’s become an obsession of sorts. The cappuccino machine has gone from a mildly interesting shot in the dark that may get thrown in the garbage to something without which your life cannot continue. That cappuccino machine is in your head, and you cannot resist its charms.
You’d better let the wife open this present last, because once she does, she’ll be unable to control her sexual urges. She’ll likely ravish you right there on the floor, stripping both of you nude in front of the tree. The other presents will be ignored as the two of you make sweet adult pudding on top of the cappuccino machine packaging.
You’d better calm down. People in line are starting to notice your boner. Is the boner for your wife, or the cappuccino machine? Even you don’t know anymore. All you know is it won’t go away until the purchase is made. You pray the sweet release occurs in your car, and not in front of the other customers.
In the past hour, you began mumbling compliments to the cappuccino machine. “So pretty. Pretty cappuccino machine. Where is it?! Pretty is in the store. Must get pretty. What’s that, pretty? Too many uglies in this crowd? Yes, pretty. I will kill them all.”
As the doors open, the seemingly boring middle-aged woman next to you, the one you had discounted and ignored when marking potential threats, unleashes a fire hose level of mace into the crowd. Your eyes burn. You can barely see. You lunge into the store, punching throats and hurling bodies out of your path. The blood and carnage is unfathomable. You reach the cappuccino machines first, before anyone else, to find that there was only one half-priced machine available, and it’s gone. An employee nearby remarks that it was bought by another employee twenty minutes before the store opened.
Your swollen, bloody, tear-stained face unleashes a horrifying scream as you crush the employee’s skull with one hand and collapse onto the tiled floor, defeated. It is then you learn that no one rules Black Friday. It is Black Friday that rules you.