Get Out of My Way!
Get out of my way!
I am powerful, cunning, and entirely amoral. I’m also in a hurry. Just moments ago, I heisted a cache of deadly neurotoxin/the world’s largest diamond/a memory card containing the secret to cold fusion.
As such, I am currently being chased by policemen, SWAT teams, helicopters, guard dogs, and an obnoxious cornucopia of Jack Bauer wannabes. But they will not catch me, for they lack a single thing that I posses: the ability to shout “Get out of my way” in a supremely frightening and villainous manner.
Know this: Should you find yourself between me and my freedom, I will not hesitate to brutally trample you under my boot and/or inconveniently knock your briefcase to the ground thus causing you to be several minutes late to an important meeting.
No, I cannot be responsible for the fact that you set up your farmers’ market/oriental rug store/pyramid of oil barrels on the very getaway path through which I will soon careen at a breakneck speed. All I can say is this: Get out of my way!
As my muscular and swift body—hideously deformed by anabolic steroid abuse/cybernetic enhancements/too much dianetics—smashes its way through fruit stands, thatched huts, and children’s birthday parties, I care nothing for the carnage that lay in the wake of my inevitable escape.
I will surely slam my military-esque vehicle through your glass storefront and out the back through your flimsy drywall before you can blink and lament your ill-advisedly small insurance policy. To me, your meager possessions are nothing more than obstacles to be obliterated as I furiously repeat my mantra: Get out of my way!
Do not mistake me. The fact that you are in my way angers me greatly. Notice the precise manner in which I scream “Get out of my way”. It is not a mere warning, as thought I were worried that I may injure you. Nor does it carry the slightest tinge of apology, as it would were I sorry for having accidentally backed into the left fender of your Honda Civic.
No, it is with rage and entitlement that I shout these words. Rage that you had to set up your trinket stand on the exact street where I would find myself evading all manner of authorities. And entitlement not to be hindered by the likes of a mid-19th century Asian peasant/child holding an ice cream cone/big city hot dog vendor such as yourself.
In short, you are in my way. Now get out of it. Or, to put it more eloquently: Get out of my way.