Having done everything he could to prevent the global apocalypse, Mr. Manchester now jumps off his Cloud Atlas and settles comfortably back in the seat of his 2013 Chevy Fantasm. The road opens up like a wide, gaping maw filled with a shit-long list of cars. They’re all pumping emissions and spiting the air with honks and obscenities and generally clogging up the arteries of life with the sheer hubris of their existence. The world is in trouble again and needs its Hero of the Wilds. It’s too damn early for that shit, thinks Mr. Manchester, grab-handling his car wand with vicious eyes set over the steering wheel.

He puts the pedal to the metal, jumping straight into hyperdrive. The hyperdrive is where it’s at. It cuts him past hundreds, if not thousands of cars, and he’s moving so fast—a healthy 12mph—that when he breaks off those side mirrors no one has time to catch him. The waves of cars roll past into his own rearview mirror, as do any shouts of anger into that sea of slowpokes back there. “Y’all need to get, need to get on my level,” he sings. He does not notice the about-five cars per second that stream swiftly past him in various lanes.

Gleeful with his smartsies, a thought diddle plops into Mr. Manchester’s head, putting him in the backyard of a barbecue where he’s really drilling this broad from France over the trunk of his Chevy. Putting the trunk in the Junk he thinks, then corrects himself: Wait, this trunk can’t fit in that Junk. Come on, self, get it together!

What a cretin. He becomes angry—or even hangry—at his own sluttiness; at the state of that front porch; at that whore he was banging for sticks. What a bag; what a cretinship. This was even worse than that time he was tripping up in 3D for a pair of D’s. Nyuk nyuk nyuk, he thinks. That’s clever. Oh, wait, where was I?

Having journeyed some fifteen blocks and incurring the wrath of a few hundred-or-something hillbillies, Mr. Manchester parks his car right in the bitch-middle of the road, turns it sideways to cover the whole width, then gets out and runs the rest of the way to work, pressing his top-hat down while lugging his briefcase behind him. The traffic jam that was actually just people waiting at a stop light becomes an actual traffic jam. Mr. Manchester stumbles over his hangover.


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