I couldn’t afford to shut the car off and

I couldn’t afford to shut the car off and I couldn’t afford to let it run for long. Jumping out, all I could think of was missing the pickup time for lovely Jennifer and what that

fortune teller had told me a year ago to the day. 'Beware running out of petrol on highway 9.' I was on highway 8 but it was close enough. Would I reach Jennifer in time?

"Time," said a British accent in my head, "from a non-linear, non-subjective viewpoint is like a big ball of wibbly wobbly... time-y wimey... stuff. " Poor Jennifer was doomed.

She was an idiot, yet she inherited the Oxford Chair of Speculation. It was her duty to make shit up in front of these "real" eggheads. She cleared her throat, "Back To The Future

..." she paused on the edge of panic, "... is real." The room erupted as the audience reacted to her words. Egghead scientists, normally expressionless, started to wail like

Egghead scientists, "this is highly unusual", "You may have a point there", and similar fare. When the started hemming and hawing about Ocham's Razor, she went postal.

She pulled out her "Glock Ceremonial Stamps" and stuck one in the canter of his chest. Note: Glock stamps are one foot square and resemble the "Target" trademark. Going Postal Step

not a goose step or a nine step, not a two step or a three step, or a five step. o/~ She then opened fire while was desperately trying to wrest the target sticker from his chest.

But in the process she accidentally yanked back enough of his shirt to revel a letter 'S'. He was Superman in disguise! He ripped off the deadly sticker from his chest and danced