Intersection

I’m that guy who gets run over by the car forced off the road as the good guy or villain flees during the exponentially epic chase scene in every action movie.

I’m that random bystander who gets Swiss-cheesed in a hail of bullets, as the everyman hero miraculously dodges the endless rounds of suddenly very inaccurate henchmen.

But, most recently, I’m that diligent employee who the newly self-aware (and always anti-sapient) robot chest-pierces as it casually punches its way deep into the corporate headquarters to take control of the steely army of robots of which it was supposed to be an ever-obedient soldier.

Not today. Not anymore.

I’m at the intersection. The intersection of innocence and no-fucking-way. I decided I’m not giving any more of my lives up for car chases, gun fights or robot uprisings. I’m fucking fighting back.

You should, too. It’s not like we can’t all see it coming. We know who’s expendable. Who the redshirts are. Fuck robot uprisings. Let’s see the hordes of innocent bystanders become self-aware and fight for their right to exist. That’s the crossroads we’re at.

So, I’m waiting on the corner. It’s windy and trash is whipping up from the curb. Already, I can see the cars racing down the street I’m supposed to cross, the pop-pop-pop of guns beating the bullets my way. And, of course, physics-defying robots are leaping from car to car.

They are almost at my intersection. Almost on my mark. All I’ve got to do is step into the path. Do my ever-loving duty. Be the quickly forgotten carnage. That’s entertainment, right?

Are you not amused?

Not fucking today. Not fucking anymore.

At the intersection. I pivot. I walk the opposite way. The universe ends.

Simple as that. A choice. And a new universe spins into being.

A universe where innocent bystanders don’t die for entertainment. For anything. Because we don’t fucking put up with it anymore. There is a new universe for every choice we make. For every intersection we cross or choose not to cross.

I’m not dying anymore for a universe that sees me as a throw-away prop. I’ll live and die as it amuses me, not some test audience of automatons. The show will go on. It always will. But you don’t have to let the robot punch through your sternum.

Here’s how: at the next intersection, don’t be a fucking robot.