Defendants are thrown on the bench, fasten seatbelts and speed your way along the fast track past the counters. Pull your fast data out of the wall, but not before you've filed 33 kilometers of data wallpaper with the forms caliphate.
“Civil servant be with us!” you shout and with a worried heart you then leap into the deep darkness from the nearest high-rise. With a bit of luck and the right thermals you can sail straight into the town hall. As a pneumatic tube you fly from department to department; you skim over the hooded heads in their monkey suits, flutter past the files that are months behind. You shoot past the guard to the Central Interrogation Unit (CIU) of the Deniers Workflow Institute (DWI). As you whiz over the cubicles, you catch snippets of the conversations. A sad affair.
In the last cubicle, you quickly urinate in the almost empty coffee cup of Civil Servant-62, who has gone to the waiting room to pick up another Profile-controlled Workless-one (PW) who has exhausted all legal remedies. A muffled cry is heard on the other end. The guard has a PW in a neck clamp, and pulls him to the segregation room around the corner.
Discomfort serves people.
Conversations come to a halt, the thumping in the seclusion ceases as soon as Guard-23 closes the door discreetly and takes his place in front of it with his arms folded.
He could smile reassuringly, but he doesn't. Instead of him 10 others, right?
You fly out through the waiting room. It's still early, and while you were doing your round it rained. Cars cross the lake square, clean traffic lights shine fresh green and warning red.
You land.
