Shopping With Mel

You are outside, in the car-park. Your memories of what has just happened are unclear. Did you do something wrong? Your hands seem to be covered in blood and bruises.

Ahead of you, you see a vast crowd of people. They're stood outside the supermarket, looking at you. Evidently they are the supermarket's customers. Why do they stare at you with such violent, naked disapproval. Do they not know who you are? You are Mel Gibson.

You recall moments of violence. Have you attacked someone again? Why won't they leave you alone? All of them? It's as though they don't realize how small they seem to you. Almost like they think they're Mel Gibson. But they are not. Only you are Mel Gibson.

Something drops out of the sky and lands at your feet. It is a tub of margarine. It splits on the concrete, the contents burst across your shoes. Someone has thrown this. They threw it at you, you think. Because of you, of what you did.

Another tub drops down, further away this time. Then another, closer. Another connects with your shin. Several hit you across the chest and shoulders. You see that the gathered shoppers have raided a parked delivery truck, carrying out crates of margarine to pelt you with. Their tubs drop like hard plastic rocks across your face. You drop to the floor, bleeding. Now bigger items are being thrown: full Edam cheeses bounce heavily off your cheeks, glass jars of instant coffee shatter across your brow, a hail of honey-baked hams rain down on you like sugar-glazed fists.

Clearly they hate you, you think, these people who know you yet at the same time do not know you. What did I do? you ask yourself as a volley of hand-baskets clatters overhead.

As they drop onto you, their leaden metal meshes battering your face, you die.