As the Himynamistan diplomatic convoy made its way to the intersection, the Dassom agent noted their passing as he sat slumped and fetid, like countless other bums on the streets of San Francisco. The convoy made its halt at the stop sign, autonomous brakes holding firm against the gravity of the downward slope.

As the convoy yielded right-of-way to the cross traffic, the Dassom agent, nameless in the shadows of the alleys of dumpsters between glittering financial monuments, lifted a small infrared controller and pointed it at the 18-wheeler loaded with pig iron that was rolling along just behind the convoy.

The Dassom agent pressed a button on the IR device and shot a signal to the 18-wheeler.

You know, how that big truck got to the top of the hill with all that metal in it was a testament to the builders of the engine in that beast of a machine. Well done, lads! Such a shame that the engineering and craftsmanship were going to be wrecked soon after the truck’s driving software interpreted the IR signal as a manual emergency override to disengage all braking systems and to accelerate.

The Dossam agent did not turn to one side or the other, but kept the metallic collision between the truck and the Himynamistan diplomats in their unmoving vehicles to his back. Most of the wreckage went forward, towards the cross street traffic, but a few small ricochets bounced off the back of the agent’s hoodie.