You’re the part-time manager of a neighborhood Domino’s Pizza in a suburb of Columbus, Ohio, responsible for your franchise’s scheduling, keeping new delivery guy Jeremy from getting high behind the store, as well as your its social media accounts and, by extension, the collective awakening of the people of the greater South Columbus metro area to the injustices of police brutality. People have known for years the power of the pen, mightier than the sword, but lest we forget the strength of the thumb that tweets out the righteous missive from our local corporations, swaying the public to its will. This is your power, almighty, incorruptible, and you must use it to tap into the immutable zeitgeist and, with all of the Shakespearean wit that propelled you into this $11.00/hour position, use it to post something on Instagram that will both notify the public of your shared sentiment on their struggle while not forsaking the opportunity to promote Domino’s new $7.99 carryout special.

It is a tightrope that you walk between the Scylla and Charibdyss of offending the supporters of the police and their detractors, between going too far left or not going far enough left, between running out of characters to adequately express your bitter tears and running out of the space to remind everybody in the suburban towns of Urban Crest, Grove City, and Darbydale that for the low, low price of $7.99, a large, hot, ready-made pizza can be theirs (contactless delivery still available). But it is one that you are prepared to walk as your phone is the scepter of justice and your Snapchat stories are as the epistles of St. Paul, spreading the gospel in an unkind time while politely reminding the world about the $5.99 mix-and-match deal, available for a limited time only.

You start with the obvious, perhaps a blackout photo as your Instagram profile with the caption “We have to do better,” and ponder whether to follow it with “and end the indiscriminate killing of African-Americans” or “and you can’t get much better than Domino’s Cheesy Bites, available as a side for only $2.49!!!” You hesitate, knowing that your finger is on the trigger of a gun pointed at the head of the Old World Order, your words like locusts ready to bear down upon the conservative, white, Christian patriarchy and burn it to the ground just like Jeremy burned the pizza for that customer the other day and you had to make a fresh one.

At last you release your perfectly crafted advert-cum-plea to the public, the last few millimeters of the upload bar eroding in much the same way that you’ve just eroded the foundation of support for the Military-Industrial Complex amongst the denizens of central Ohio. Reclining in your chair with a bit of glee, you can’t help but compare yourself to Martin Luther King, to Mahatma Gandhi, to Dale Cassman—not a notable civil rights leader but a very successful former manager of this establishment—and scoff at all of their accomplishments, for none combined a sales savvy with a drive to heal the world quite like you, you crusader of the common man, you warrior of the double stuffed crust.

Almost immediately the likes start flooding in, the favorites, the retweets, the customers angrily demanding faster pizza, the Jeremy (still, from the smell of it, high as a kite), when the phone starts to ring. “H-hello?” The voice faintly calls out from the other end of the line and you ask it to speak up to which it feebly replies “Is this the Domino’s in Pleasant Corners.” You confirm. “I concede defeat.” You can hardly believe it, but after asking twice, thrice to make certain, you know the voice on the other end to be President Donald Trump. “I saw your post about the injustice that has run rampant in our police force, the cruelty of the system that we’ve created to keep black people downtrodden, and the poor prices and customer service of the Pizza Hut down the street. I admit to all of it. I can’t fix this country but—” You can hear him fighting back tears on the other end of the line. “But you can!”

Before you know it the Air Force One jet is there, cruising into the eight-car parking lot of your franchise and torching Jeremy’s Honda Civic beneath the heat of its turbines. With a teary farewell you wave goodbye to the employees you care for and whom you have guided for so long, both with the shared weekly scheduling group-text and through the socially-conscious shepherding of your posts. A single tear falls from your eye, knowing that you’ve already solved police brutality, and already you look forward, pondering how to structure your tweet about Domino’s stance on military spending.


And now a quick joke...

It’s fitting that I never learned how to correctly spell “self-sabatogue.”