Look out for Greased Lightning

A wave of nausea washes over you as the thick smell of grease inside the Dinkydome enters your nostrils. You quickly round a corner and find the bathrooms before retching your guts out. “I remember why I stopped doing this stuff now,” you think between dry heaves, emptied of everything but the urge to keep heaving. “I can’t believe those damn protesters dropped acid in my Coke!” you think.
Finally, the pangs subdue, and you rest your weary head on the cold, sober porcelain. When you feel up to it, you stumble back out into the main lobby of the dome, surprised to find everyone gone and all the doors locked.
“I’m locked in!” you realize, angry that you’ve missed your flight for sure. But eventually it occurs to you that there are worse places to locked inside for the night.
“I guess I’ll just sit around and gorge myself on cheeseritos, deep-fried rice and gyros all night,” you think. But a sharp crack to the back of your skull interrupts both that thought and your consciousness.
Slowly, you awaken on a sunny, white sand beach, and by the angle of the sun and the darkness of the beach bums’ tans, you can tell that you’re in Baja! You have no conception of how you got there, but where’s the use in arguing?
The direct sunlight is hot on your naked skin, and beads of sweat begin to tickle your brow for the first time in months. Far off, you hear the deep bass thuds of a beach band drummer as you close your eyes to soak up the rays.
“Man, that sun is hot,” you think, feeling like a bug underneath a magnifying glass. Your head begins to throb and the world starts to press in on your skull.
You open your eyes to the realization that you’ve been bound and gagged, and are suspended by your ankles above a cauldron of boiling lead. Tall figures in dark green robes and hoods decorated with Coca-Cola symbols look on with blank eyes, chanting “Always … Always … Always …” A bass drum thumps slowly in the background.
The last thing you see is the shadowy figure from your Econ class with a knowing grin, holding the ticket that led you to your demise.