A Canadian cargo truck crosses the American border. It all seems peaceful. He lowers his guard, softly feathering the brakes to pull over and get a coffee to rejuvenate and stretch his legs. Suddenly – lunging from deep within the forest…hill shopping mall comes a crowd of Karens – maskless, yelping that the bill of rights protects them from having warm air on their face. They charge the truck. Clawing, coughing, licking the large machine. All the trucker can hear are murmurs and groans about asthma and hoaxes. The trucker readies his can of Lysol and covers his face. He trembles in fear as he watches the dead eyed Karens try to cough the door unlocked. The smell of Chardonnay is pungent as a forest of yoga panted legs fumble over the hood and windshield.

All the trucker can do is wait. And pray. And tweet.