“Merry Christmas, TimJohn!” I cried as I plowed the cryo-van into a crowd of schoolkids singing carols in the street. Behind me the chronocops screeched to a halt to avoid hitting the ones I missed. Chuckling to myself, I cracked open a can of metacoke and tuned the radio to a local brainwave matrix. Focussing too much on the controls and not enough on the road, I veered off and ploughed straight into a dna response billboard, which began forming itself into a personalised advert for me as I dripped blood all over it. Staggering out of the written off cryo-van, I puked over myself then passed out. It was the best christmas ever.