A Roland Emmerich-style 100-foot wave was attacking my city, and the sturdiest building to hide behind was the pharmacy. I met up with my coworkers there, and said (since I have a one-track mind for politics), “Now’s the perfect time to demand a union. Hell, we could probably kill the boss and blame it on the wave.”
They didn’t seem convinced. One coworker argued against my plan. “This wave won’t kill anyone, they’d find out.”
I wasn’t having it. “Come on,” I replied, “people die in heat waves. Surely THIS will kill people.”
“No,” she continued, “our boss is a racist.”
I was puzzled. “That’s an even better reason to kill her!”
Having convinced no one, I went in alone. I stole a pair of scissors right in front of the boss (“for self-defense” I told her). But I reconsidered the murder plot and decided to steal a pair of glasses instead. The wave might cut off the supply of replacement contact lenses, and I knew at least I deserved to see clearly.