The Gravedigger dug deep into the upturned soil, and deposited a clump into the empty bottle. At first, the Complainer thought that the Worker wanted to get some blackmail material in exchange for his help, but no, he actually got a jar of dirt for his trouble. It hardly seemed worth it. “All that work just for this?”
“This is the last component. We’re down the home stretch now.”
“Is this going to take much longer?”
“Just one more stop at the Dirt Farm, and it’ll all be over.”
Over at the Workplace, the Thief had made his way towards the Third Corridor where the fabled Management was rumoured to be. He expected having to charm his way through another layer of bureaucratic employees getting in his way, only to find the presence of a huge intimidating tall Robed Figure menacing the hallway. It was draped in rags that matched the colour schemes of the walls, and cast a discomforting aura. Everybody working there was doing their utmost best to look as busy as possible, and avoid being seen. The Robed Figure stopped in front of a stall that attracted its attention, and the Thief was about to intervene when the Robed Figure bent down over the clerks’ shoulders and said in an unnerving tone,
[cOmpLAiNtS.]
“No, there’s nothing wrong here!”
“Everything’s perfectly fine!”
“Running smoothly!”
The Robed Figure wasn’t convinced, and looked about, its covered twin heads swinging around until they pinpointed a single random employee and sauntered towards its general direction.
[wHaT’s WrOnG?]
“We can’t complete the project in two months, let alone two weeks!”
[yOu HaVe TwO HoUrS.]
“Thank you for your words of wisdom!” the employee said, trying to avert the gaze of his co-workers glaring at him for going into sudden death deadline pressure.
“Excuse me,” the Thief said, “Sorry to bother you while you’re busy, but I need to talk to you.”
Even though its features were obscured, the outline of the rumpled clothes surrounding the Robed Figure suggested anatomical impossibilities ultimately culminating in having two heads. That was the only thing about the Management that made sense.
[wHat’S tHe pRobLeM?] the dissonant voice said.
Hearing the voice from a distance and having it aimed directly at you were two different things. The Thief’s methods of intimidation only worked when dealing from a position of fear, and in this place, he held very low on the respect ranking. In the midst of their presence, all pretense of duplicity faded away. The voice rattled him from the inside, but the Thief pressed on. “There’s been an awful mistake.”
[wRoNg FlOoR.]
“No, not that. There’s something you need to see.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out the Worker’s card. “If you look at my Identification card and my face, you’ll see that they’re not the same.”
The Robed Figure snatched the card away. One head stretched its neck, staring at the Thief, while the other looked impassively at the stolen piece of Identification. Even though he couldn’t see their features, the Thief felt very nervous being scrutinized this way.
Then the long head of the Robed Figure snapped back in place, and part of its nondescriptive rags stretched out, surrounding the Thief’s head. The Thief thrashed helplessly as he was raised, his head muffled, trying to remove the loose fabric that now had an iron grip. Then all of a sudden, he was let go, and fell to the ground, gasping for breath. As he held his throat, he felt a subtle change. The underside of his chin felt more defined than usual, and his sight felt strange. Putting his hands to the sides, he felt the contours of his skull, and found it was now flat.
[tHerE. nOw YoU MaTcH.]
The Robed Figure handed over the ID and glided away. The Thief’s blurred vision refocused, and he looked for a mirror to see himself, settling for looking at an Amazing Grey instead. What he saw confirmed his fear. The Management had misunderstood his intent. Instead of confirming that they’d had the wrong man for the job, they had reshaped his head to look like his Identification card. His head was now a cube, with each side showing a profile of the Worker’s face - and nothing in between.
In his haste to circumvent around the routes of hierarchy, the Thief had forgotten one of the cardinal rules when dealing with shortcuts.
“You can only bend the rules of the Law for so long, before they start to bend back.”
“I’m back,” the Worker declared, getting the attention of the Dirt Farmer. “I’ve got another soil sample for you.”
“You got the stuff from the third moon?”
“Not yet. I got you something else.”
The Worker opened the jar of dirt, and the Dirt Farmer stuck a finger in. There was an audible gasp of impressiveness from the stoic figure no longer bothering to retain his composure. “Ooh, this is quality material! Hard to decompose this time of year! How’d you manage?”
“Trade secret. In exchange, I need to use the usual, again.”
Grumbling noises could be heard as the Dirt Farmer reluctantly opened the contents of his wares, where jars of dirt sat on carefully arranged shelves, separated by region, category, soil consistency, absorbency, erosion, fossils and rocks.
As the two men made their way inside the interior, the Dirt Farmer could be heard remarking, “I don’t appreciate having footprints all over them. You’re just getting them dirty!”
The Worker made a beeline to a specific table that had a selection of bottled dirt already arranged for him, and started dumping the contents into contained piles on boxed outlines on the floor.
“Okay, you’ve gone to a great deal of trouble bringing me here. What’s the big deal?”
“I just need you to stand on this patch of dirt, and move on to the next when I say so.”
“What for?”
“Right now, you’re on the land of Bloom Country. That makes you eligible to enter this land, which is this pile of dirt here. Step over here now.”
As soon as the Complainer set foot onto the pile of dirt, the Worker stamped the Complainer’s card with an ink slab invisible to the naked eye. Looking closer, there were numerous coloured ink slabs on the table that blended into the background. Only the presence of the nearby rubber stamps gave them away, and they were obscured by the dirt bottles.
“Now, by chance, you happen to hear about a bargain that’s not normally available in your homeland, taking a tour of the tropics at a reduced rate. So you decide to take a little trip, using this system to your advantage, only to venture out, get caught, and be forcibly shunted back.”
The Worker was becoming more animated and talking excitedly now, speaking at a breathless rapid pace that was difficult to follow.
“You’ll become the victim of an amateur left-handed handler, who’ll accidentally stamp the wrong box, forcing you to be shipped out to Kokonino Country where the mistake won’t be recognized until arrival. At which point, his colleagues there will want to get rid of you as soon as possible to cover up the mistake. That’s where your card gets stamped twice, because they always skimp on the ink, and are too cheap to splurge the expense. As a result, you’re flagged as a flight risk, and shuffled off to the Double Islands. There, they’ll quickly figure out your stamping mistake, and reroute you along with all the other travelers who’ve been forced this route, and go to the Condemned Lands. But wait! You’ll be prevented from boarding, on danger of overloading, and have to catch a later flight out. Naturally, you’ll want to avoid going there at all costs, so you’ll bribe numerous officials, who’ll sneak dirty looks at all the suspicious stops you’ve made, wondering just where you’ve been, what you’ve seen and what you’ve been doing. But don’t worry - this is exactly what we want!”
“It is?”
“Absolutely! That means you’ll be deported back under heavy watch, where you’ll be seen as a spy, and be flagged by numerous nations vehemently denying any association or entry. After which, you’ll be traded multiple times for political prisoners, and get another stamp from people who’ll want to get rid of you fast. So now, you’ll be extradited back where you came from. In this case, that happens to be the first patch of land where you were standing. And just like that, you’ve traveled around the world without leaving this room! Astounding isn’t it?”
“Very impressive,” the Complainer breathlessly replied, not understanding a word of what just happened. “But what was the point?”
“The point was that after moving around so much and rejected so much, you’re now officially labeled a Nomad without a land to return to, and are eligible for refugee status.”
The Worker returned the card with a flourish. “Which should be taking effect... NOW!”, he emphasized with a dramatic gesture from his hands.
The Complainer waited expectantly.
“Now.” the Worker repeated, as if the act of saying the word again would change anything.
“Is something supposed to happen?”
“I didn’t forget anything, did I?” the Worker quizzically asked, flipping the card back and forth. “It should’ve worked by now. What did I miss - ” Then he stopped, closed his eyes, his head turned upwards and turned to the Dirt Farmer. “Has the latest legislature passed today?
“Not as far as I know.”
“Oh, that’s it! My stand-in’s messed up my workplace somehow! He’s interfered with the necessary paperwork that’s supposed to allow legislation to pass through! It looks like I’ll have to go back to my workplace early and resolve the bottleneck.” The Worker rested a conciliatory hand on the Complainer’s shoulder. “I thought we’d be done by now, but it looks like we’re going to have to make another stop. Back to the last place I wanted.”
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