When I asked him to leave, he yelled, “You think you’re better than me?” and swung the cart like a weapon. It hit my side hard enough to knock the wind out of me.

“I’m sorry,” I wheezed, stepping back. He spat on the floor, muttered something about “corporate slaves,” and left on his own. I cleaned up the spit, holding my ribs, and whispered, “Yes, friend. This is fine.”

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=5630780&forum_id=2/#48314487)