Johnny Smith had his life figured out—the job was his calling, his significant other was “his” girl, and they were getting married very soon. Then, on his way home from what seemed like an okay date (and only okay because he uncharacteristically got ill on a ride he loved any other day), life threw him an 18-wheeled curveball that wrecked his car, wrecked his body, and his life.

When Johnny woke up, the world that greeted him wasn’t the world he’d blacked out in. His job was gone, the girl was gone, even the ride was gone. All he knew at that point was pain, emotional and physical simultaneously. He knew pain. And he also knew when things would happen, or when they did, though his warnings were at first greeted by skepticism and reassurances from people who didn’t know. They thought they knew, but Johnny knew. He saw where the roads led, or would lead, pointed it out. And when he wasn’t going to be heard, he took ill-advised, rash and destructive action.

Compare that synopsis of David Cronenberg’s adaptation of Stephen King’s bestselling novel The Dead Zone to say, a certain Secretary of State’s campaign for a certain public office, let’s say, last year. She had the calling, she had the spouse (arguable, but let’s roll with it for now), and everything looked like it was pointing her way.

Then a giant truck full of pumpkin spice racism comes barreling around the corner, blaring the worst talk radio has to offer, careening from lane to lane. “Well he’s never getting where he’s going, driving like that,” she thinks. Little did she know, that the other driver was only looking to get to where she was going to be, from the opposite direction. And was going to ruin both vehicles, the road, the ditch next to the road, probably pollute a stream, kill a unicorn, dance on the graves of historically respected people, and be incredibly petty and juvenile the whole ride down.