Imagine a zombie run 5k with Dorothy Parker and Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie leaping over the prone bodies of Ernest Hemingway and Jonathan Franzen. Kurt Vonnegut is sitting in a tree, smoking a bent Pall Mall, looking down upon the mass of humanity with humorous disdain. Haruki Murakami (a Boston Marathon regular since the 90s) is sitting at the finish line, medal around his neck, petting a cat.

This is kind of like that. But also a guy from Vermont talking into a microphone.