David glanced at the clock. Five more minutes. He leaned against a washing machine, crossed his arms and looked at the horde of consumers pressed against the door. It was the same every year. Two years ago, a five-year-old had been trampled. Nobody in that mob gave a passing thought to that little boy now. They just wanted to get inside to save up to 50% off televisions and toasters they didn’t really need. Most of these people probably weren’t even buying Christmas presents.

He wondered what it is about people that requires them to have the biggest, brightest, flashiest, newest whatever. What is it about Americans that makes them think it’s alright to spend Thanksgiving in a tent in a parking lot just to buy something that isn’t even necessary in a survival of the fittest sort of way? If David was honest with himself, it disgusted him, but he had learned to let that go. His job was to sell those toasters and televisions while incurring the fewest fatalities possible.

Two minutes. People were beginning to crush the front with the anticipation of the doors opening. The safety glass, which had replaced real glass after the masses had actually pushed right through it last year, was beginning to bow with the weight.

David and Neil, the assistant manager, attached themselves to safety harnesses. David glanced at Neil, who nodded assent. At a count of three, David turned the key and Neil opened the door. A swarm of humanity buzzed around them, shoving them out of the way. David just hoped that nobody died this year. The store didn’t need any more bad press.

Trifecta Challenge:  33 to 333 words featuring the word Anticipation: a : visualization of a future event or state b : an object or form that anticipates a later type