The flame eats away at the match in your finger, dying out into a strip of smoke. You look at the puddle of petrol all round you, the can of boiled baby carrots in your hands, now so obviously not the spirit of the late entertainer Michael Jackson but an inert can of equally inert boiled baby carrots. What were you thinking?

A middle-aged woman approaches you. She is wearing a tabbard and looks annoyed at you. She is clearly an employee of the supermarket.

'God damn. You're going to have to clean this mess up,' she says. 'I'll get you a mop.'

Do you want to:

go mad and kill her with your bare motherfucking hands?
clean it up?