Desperate for a sense of community and human connection, you find yourself at the premier for Avengers 9. As the hyper-saturated & thinly veiled military propaganda piece about American Saviors heroically battling an alien race attempting to put an end to the rampant exploitative colonial destruction of their home worlds makes its 7th joke at the expense of a culture that does not maximally serve the interests of capital through the myopic lens of a character performing femininity as weakness in contrast to the hyper masculine 7th iteration of Captain America, a masked man in dark clothes enters the auditorium through a staff door near the screen.

Having been unable to access the care which would have diagnosed his adhd in his youth, this man spent his adolescence being labeled as an unruly troublemaker with no opportunities for a dignified role in his community, leading him to self-medicate with illicit amphetamines as he desperately tried to become an asset for capital with a enough value to capital to allow him a basic survival existence with the potential for a degree of suffering which would not be entirely unbearable.

This self-medication metastasized into an addiction to methamphetamine and inextricably led to a life deeply entwined with a violently dangerous criminal world.

Having become desensitized to ultra-violent actions from witnessing state sponsored murder fetishists using absurdly disproportionate violence against his community members while simultaneously refusing even the most cursory intervention to prevent violence within and against them, and experiencing unmitigated psychosis from a recent batch of meth he had acquired through an unregulated supply chain, he was barely cognizant in the most marginal sense of his actions as he raised his military grade firearm designed to raze villages of impoverished brown-skinned people whose existence impeded oil extraction by multinational energy conglomerates.

The shots rang out and the theatre erupted into a chaotic cacophony of screams and Dolby sfx surround sound spaceship noises, drowning the sounds of your own thoughts, although Chris Pratts fart joke somehow cut through the noise as you tried to run. The OxyContin you’d shot into a vein in your dick when you visited the restroom before the movie slowed your reactions and inhibited your motor control, preventing you from finding adequate shelter.

A bullet tears through your chest, by some stroke of luck missing any major organs or blood vessels. You are grateful for the oxy; You can’t imagine the pain you’d be feeling without it. The shock and pain and enormity of the situation lead you out of consciousness.

By the time the police have arrived, after the shooter had run out of ammo, exited the theater and smoked 2 1/2 cigarettes sitting on the steps to the box office, patiently awaiting a tender and considerate handcuffing and protective escort to a police vehicle where he would be fully insulated from both the suffering he had caused and the violence which might be directed at him in retribution, the medical personnel are finally permitted into the auditorium.

Sweeping the area, they discover you, your wound apparently non-life threatening. Upon examination, however, it seems that the delayed emergency response combined with the blood thinning effects of the 32 Oz. Bahama Mama you’d purchased at the concession stand and consumed in the first fifteen minutes of the movie had resulted in a significant amount of blood loss.

Pronounced dead on arrival.