Sharon Williams, age 39 plus twin toddlers, was making a fresh start. At 8:24, Freddy was already 250 miles behind them and with any luck there would be at least a hundred more before he sobered up enough to notice they were gone. She was confident he would never think to look for them in Dallas; there was no way he could have found the letter from her old roommate that had offered a glimpse of a different future. If he bothered to look anywhere she figured he would go to their hometown, but she had lost all connection to Little Rock when her parents died. Dallas offered a new life. Who knew if she would get any more chances? Sharon stifled a yawn and drained the last of the convenience store coffee, and with her head tilted back she did not notice that the 18-wheeler ahead of her was rapidly turning its tires into smoke.

=====

"Hold it, Fate! You're WAY out of line with this one. Are you kidding me? She is TOTALLY on my side of the board. Call off your goon right now, or every alcoholic this side of Vegas will experience such a moment of clarity that they will never even be TEMPTED to drink again!"

Fate sighed, let out a shrill whistle and carelessly waved his hand. Time turned off his treadmill and took a break. Death, who had been hiding inside the trailer, appeared on its roof with a disappointed look on his face. His expression contrasted with the pure terror currently etched into Sharon's face, frozen in the moment where she saw her imminent doom. Fate smiled. Free Will had intervened just late enough that the outcome was no longer a sure thing, but even he had been caught napping when Fate scared a deer - a deer! - over the fence and onto the highway. A brilliant move if he did say so himself. It would be interesting to see how this one played out.

"Fine, Will. Have it your way. This one's all yours, but oops! Looks like you've got your work cut out for you to get the lady and her kids out of this in one piece."

Will stormed out of Sharon's beat-up Chevy and glared at Fate with furious eyes. "Are you out of your mind? I'm going to have to get her Ladyship involved to fix this, and you KNOW how much paperwork that means. For both of us."

Fate shrugged. "Less hassle if you just leave her to me." Will's scowl got even darker in response. "Whatever. Let's go see Lady Luck, then."

=====

In person, the Commissioner of Providence was not nearly as glamorous as her public persona. She was only of average height, with dirty blonde hair and a few suggestions of crows’ feet around her pale blue eyes. Her mouth, pursed tightly with disapproval any time Fate was nearby, belied her legendary smile. Frankly, Fate didn’t get her mystique at all, and often wondered what back-room deals she had made to get the job. His life had certainly been easier before she arrived on the scene.

Naturally Lady Luck’s office was in Las Vegas. Fate and Free Will found her drumming her fingers on the felt of a craps table, staring irritably at the dice that were suspended in midair before her.

“You certainly took your time getting here, gentlemen,” she said. “Who has Fate tried to kill now?”

Fate tried on an injured expression. “Why do you always assume it’s me? Just moments ago, Free Willie threatened to make a move on my drunkards!”

“Spare me. Need I remind you that the Providence Department was established because you blatantly and repeatedly made end-runs around Free Will by sending Death after anyone who refused to accept their Fate?”

Fate rolled his eyes. Maybe one day she might add some variation to the lecture.

“You-“ Luck turned her attention to Will “-explain.”

When Will concluded with the hopeful turn in Sharon’s story, Luck shook her head. Fate was such a … oh, she could almost scream!

“Okay, you two. Will, have you already filled out a Luck Request Form on behalf of Sharon and her sons? You have? Excellent. Fate, I won’t even both asking. Just have a Censure Acknowledgment Affidavit on my desk by tomorrow. In triplicate.”

“Triplicate? What the-“

“Triplicate. Don’t make me censure you a second time. Now get Time back on his treadmill so I can watch Timmy’s face here when he rolls his third 12 in a row!”

“You know, there’s something …”

“Do it. Now,” said Lady Luck, with a hint of menace in her voice. Fate wasn’t convinced that she had anything to back it up, but then again, he hadn’t been able to prevent her from getting the job. He shrugged and waved his hand again. Time climbed back on the treadmill.

=====

Sharon stood on her brakes, too shocked to scream as the trailer jack-knifed and skidded out of her way. The big truck scraped to a stop against the crash barrier and Sharon cautiously drove past. Out of the corner of her eye, she thought she saw a deer running into the trees, away from danger. Just like me, she thought. I guess Lady Luck just smiled on us both.

"Dallas, here we come!"

=====

Timmy’s face did indeed register a happy expression when the dice landed. He was not so pleased when someone jostled him and he turned around to see Death grinning at him.

The name on the door was printed in large, bold letters. “Mr Wormwood”, it stated, and below that, in smaller type: “Elected Officer, Infernal Affairs Division”. The glass underneath the lettering was dirty and yellowing, and the sickly electric light in the corridor did nothing to improve the shabby look of the place. There were no windows to provide natural light; not this far underground. Mike had lost count of the number of stairs he had walked down to arrive here.

His nerves were beginning to get the better of him. The corridor was long, poorly lit and apparently empty - there were no other doors he could see. A single chair sat against the opposite wall, but that was all. He considered turning around and walking away without even knocking, but this was his first job offer in the six months since he'd left college. He couldn't afford to blow it.

Gathering himself, Mike took a deep breath and knocked on the door. Briefly, he saw a dim shadow moving behind the glass, then the door swung open. A faint, unpleasant odour drifted out from the room. In the doorway stood a small, dapper looking man in the later years of middle age. He was dressed in a neat brown suit, and his face was dominated by a large pair of spectacles which magnified his watery eyes. An almost comically bright bow tie sat at his collar. He regarded Mike balefully, then his lips pulled into a grin.

“Michael!” he exclaimed. The voice was rich and plummy, reminding Mike of English nobility. “How good to see you finally. And on time, too! Wonderful. Punctuality is my watchword, you know.”

The man extended a hand.

“Jarvis Wormwood. Pleased to meet you,” he said. Mike extended his own hand.

“Uh, hello, sir,” he said. His hand was grasped and pumped enthusiastically. Wormwood's grip was dry and unpleasant, and Mike concealed a shudder.

“Your hair is shorter than in your photograph, Michael. I must apologise, It took me a moment to place you. Do come in, won't you?”

Mike stepped into the room and looked around. It was darker than the corridor, uncomfortably warm, and the smell was stronger. The furniture was sparse, but looked expensive. A burnished mahogany desk stood at one end of the room with two elegant chairs on either side. Along one wall sat a red leather sofa, cracked and darkened with age. A single filing cabinet stood beside it on the bare floor. Mike's sense of unease grew as he looked into the corner of the room.

In the shadows gathering there, Mike saw the floorboards were broken and burned in a circle above a large, dark hole in the earth underneath. The walls and surrounding area were filthy with dirt, and Mike thought he could see hundreds of fingermarks tracked into the grime, as if someone had tried to climb out. All of the tracks disappeared into the blackness of the pit below.

Puzzled, and a little shocked, he turned and saw Wormwood gesturing to one of the chairs.

“Sit, Michael, sit. We have a lot to cover,” Wormwood said. He pointed over at the hole. “And don't worry about that, we will take the correct measures before we begin,” he said, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose.

“I was told this was a clerical position, Mr Wormwood?” said Mike, alarmed. Something was not right here. “I don't think...,” he began, but Wormwood flapped a hand at him, cutting him off.

“Government, Michael. Government. There's more to it than you think. Much more. More to it than the public will ever know. Can ever know. Infernal Affairs is a very minor office, in the grand scheme, but very necessary.” Wormwood leaned back into his chair. “You see, Michael, everything is governed, in one way or another. Government goes way beyond what you see on the daily news. There are no secrets to those that Govern. Magic, ghosts, aliens, and so on. Those in charge know the truth of all these things.”

He gave a girlish chuckle.

“This Office deals mainly with the Arcane. Specifically Demons, Michael.”

Mike was suddenly aware his mouth was hanging open.

“When we get our instructions, we summon an appropriate demon and direct it to its target. Simple enough business, really,” Wormwood continued. His voice was emotionless, and Mike got the impression the man had made this speech before. Many times. Sweat trickled down his back.

“When it has completed its assignment, we deliver it home. We don't question the why and wherefore of it all. Orders, instructions - all just another level of bureaucracy, really,” Wormwood said, and smiled. “I've been watching you for some time now, Michael. You have potential. You were ruthless, academically. You have a nasty streak in you. I think you may fit in well here. Of course, the choice is yours.” He folded his arms across his chest.

Mike felt as if he was glued to the chair. This had to be a joke. From behind him, he heard a strange rustling noise. He realised with growing horror it had come from the ragged hole in the floorboards. Wormwood was grinning. Mike leapt up, and ran for the door.

There was an awful, gurgling laugh from somewhere below. Mike pulled frantically at the door, but it wouldn't open.

“Michael, you have a choice to make. The things I've told you... must remain secret. We all serve, in silence, or... the alternative is worse, I'm afraid.” Wormwood's voice was almost gentle. “My assistant is on its way. Join us, and you'll get along famously together. Otherwise...,” he shook his head, sadly.

Mike remembered the fingermarks leading into the darkness.

He turned, and when he saw the thing that was pulling itself up from the hole, he understood there was no choice to make, after all.

Kaneohe, Oahu, Hawaii
2311 AD

Taylor Miles checked her equipment one last time before heading off to her first day of work in her new post as State Aquatic Environmental Monitor.

It was a job that sounded way more glamorous than it was, and it had next to no power, but it paid the bills, and that was all that mattered. Besides, what could possibly be better than getting paid to go scuba diving and exploring reefs?

She hit the cold water with a splash, and smiled when she her best friend waiting for her nearby.

He’d asked her for a name, and she had yet to think of one for him. What did one call a hammerhead shark?

I have no idea what to call you, Taylor’s regret was clear in her words. How she was able to communicate telepathically with a shark, she had no idea, but she could, and she actually liked it.

I understand. The shark moved easily with only occasional sweeps of its powerful tail. You are wearing a new skin. What does that mark on your pectoral fin mean?

My what? Oh! Taylor made the connection. He didn’t know a human's pectoral fin was called an arm. You're looking at the new State of Hawaii Aquatic Environmental Monitor.

The shark was silent for a moment. Is that good?

I think so, Taylor followed the shark with strong, steady kicks of her feet. It comes with a paycheck- it means I can find food, so... yes.

Then I am happy for you. The shark swirled left and came back toward her. Take my fin. There is something you should see.

Taylor felt a bit awkward grabbing a shark by its dorsal fin, but the shark could swim faster than she could even if she had a propeller strapped to her back, so she did as she was told and kept her feet clear of his powerful tail.

This is what I wanted to show you, Taylor.

Tayor looked down and stared in shock and disbelief. What happened?

The shark slowed and waited for her to slowly move downward. He could dive without worrying about compression, humans couldn't. That is what I hope you can tell me. The reef did not look like this just one spawning cycle ago.

Taylor made notes on her digipad and took pictures of the dead coral and silt-covered rocks that had once been strewn with mussels of all kinds.

What is this? The shark nudged something over to her with his broad, flat head.

Taylor caught the piece of metal as it sank toward her hand. Bader Industrial was etched on it in large letters. Garbage.

Bader Industrial had been the subject of a lot of bad press lately, and all of it because of the way they were disposing of construction debris.

They had cleaned up the area, changed their practices, and become the picture of environmental compliance. They also made generous annual contributions to AquaPark and Marine Life International to fund education and preservation programs. And thanks to them, the shark population off the coast of Kaneohe, Hawaii, was on the rebound. Best of all, the great hammerhead sharks like the one she had befriended, were finally removed from the endangered species list after nearly a century of being so close to extinction that there were more in captivity than in the wild.

She took samples of the silt, coral, and rocks.

The shark swam a silent patrol nearby. Why did this happen, Taylor?

Pollution, Taylor put the empty cans in her bag and filmed even more footage of the ruined reef. Bader Industrial had a lot to answer for, and as Hawaii’s Aquatic Environmental Monitor, she now had the power to speak for the reefs and the animals that lived in them.

Granted, there was little she could do herself, but she answered directly to the Minister of Oceanic Affairs, and if anyone had the power to take down a polluter like Bader Industrial, it was Quasar Synolakis.

Taylor looked at the shark. I think I have a name for you.

Really? The shark sounded hopeful. Is it better than the sound most humans make when they see me?

Taylor nearly laughed. When people saw a shark, they generally screamed. Yes. What do you think of Quasar?

Quasar… the shark swirled around her, skimmed the floor of the reef kicking up silt, debris, and irrefutable proof of pollution. Quasar…

No good? I mean, I know a shark should have a cool name, and I think that since the person who can stop Bader Industrial is named Quasar, it would be a good name for you.

I like the sound of it. Who is this Quasar?

Quasar Synolakis. He's the Minister of Oceanic Affairs, and he has the power to protect the ocean from people like Bader Industrial. He'd never know about this if not for you, and since you protect the reefs and oceans, I think you should share his name.

Quasar circled once before waving his pectoral fins, the agreed-upon signal of agreement. I am Quasar, Finder of Pollution.

Taylor grinned as best she could with her mouthpiece. I need to get back, get a new tank, and report this. I really appreciate your help, Quasar.

You rescued me from a gill net, Taylor, Quasar answered kindly. This is the least I can do in return. Besides, you are Taylor, Stopper of Pollution.

Taylor took Quasar’s fin and let him take her back to her boat. Bader Industrial was going to go down in a ball of flame if it was the last thing she did- even if it meant losing her post.

The pollution had to stop.

The reefs and everything in them, including Quasar, couldn't speak for themselves. Someone had to speak for them. If she didn't, who would?

Fred was walking home when he tripped over a manhole cover in the street in front of his house. It hadn't been put back properly, and one side was up in the air. He hurt nothing important except for his dignity, but he did tear a hole in one of the legs of his pants. In a foul mood, he stormed into his house.

“Is something wrong dear?” his wife asked.

“I'll say something is wrong. The fool workmen did not replace the manhole cover properly.”

“Well they were working in the sewer today. Would you like me to ring them in the morning?”

“No, I will take care of this personally.”

The next morning Fred walked down to the municipal building, an imposing edifice, and up to the receptionist.

“I am Fred Brown, taxpayer, and I would like to report some lax workmanship regarding my sewer line.”

The receptionist popped her gum and said “Yes sir, is it backing up, not working, or flooding the street?”

“Good heavens no! The manhole cover was not replaced properly.”

“Then you want the Department of Manhole Covers. Room B-3.”

“Which is where?”

“The basement, that is what the 'B' stands for.”

Fred looked around for an elevator; not spotting one he opted for the stairs. The room in question was adjacent to the boiler room. He knocked on the door, and a voice from inside bade him to enter. He did. The room was small, Fred had seen bigger janitor's closets. Stuffed into it were a desk, two chairs, and a man. On the desktop a nameplate announced: David Loudermilk III, Director, Department of Manhole Cover Selection and Maintenance.

“Next!,” the little man announced. Fred rather assumed he was David.

Fred looked around, and seeing no one else, not that they could fit a third person in the office, said “I believe I am next.”

“Very well, fill out this form in triplicate.”

He handed Fred a form on a clipboard and a pen.

Fred looked over the form, and was bewildered. Hundreds of boxes, all required, most having to do with dimensions. Weight of manhole cover, year of manufacture, diameter, top grid choices, he shook his head at it all.

“Look I only have a simple request,” he said.

“There is nothing simple about manhole covers,” David interrupted. “Few people understand the care and consideration that goes into choosing them. For instance, do you know why manhole covers are round?”

Fred thought about it. “So they fit over the manhole?”

“Typical answer, and utterly wrong. Look here,” David said, putting a replica of a sewer entrance, manhole, and little paper man working on the sewer. In this case the manhole was square. “Notice what happens when you use a square manhole cover.”

He took a miniature square piece of metal, and moved it over the hole on a diagonal, where it dropped in and crushed the little paper man.

“So you see, it isn't that simple.”

“Yes but all I wanted to ask.”

“And there is one other shape of manhole cover used. Do you know what it is?”

“Well, I...”

“Equilateral Triangle.”

“That's all very fine, but what I came in about...”

“And there is only one place that uses those. Know what it is?”

“Look, I can see you are an expert on manhole covers, but my problem is the one in front of my house doesn't fit right since...”

“Doesn't fit right? The devil you say. I personally go over the specifications of each and every one of them myself. It must fit right.”

“Well it probably does, but the workmen did not put it properly in the hole.”

“Well why didn't you say that to start with? You want the Supervisor of Manhole Cover Placement. His office is down the hall. Room B-11”

Fred left the office, and located room B-11. He knocked on the door. A voice from inside bade him to enter. The office was as small as the first.

“Pardon me, I'm...”

“Yes, yes, I am a busy man. Take this form and fill it out in triplicate.”

“...looking for the boiler room. Sorry to have bothered you.”

“If you want a job done right, sometimes you are better off doing it yourself,” Fred thought.

A chill autumn wind was blowing around the park, rattling leaves and ruffling duck feathers. An old paper wrapper scudded along the concrete path, and was rudely brushed aside by a walking stick. The owner of the stick was deep in conversation with another figure; the two of them strolled along, rulers of this lacklustre microcosm.

“…all of which accounts for the current state of the market. I’ve never known it so bad.”
“Me neither, old chap.”
The conversation whipped out from under branches and echoed through the desolate park.
“I can see why the other boys in the Bureau want to make some cutbacks ”“ this latest project, for instance” the first figure continued, his partner taking it all in.
“Oh?” Dom straightened; this did not sound good.
Sam was getting into his stride by now. “I never cared for it much myself. Ignorant bunch working the thing.”
“Now, hang on, old chap…” He was on the defensive ”“ but then again, he usually was.
Sam’s voice betrayed his annoyance; “Well, they swan around like they own the place, never giving a thought to us…” Ridges appeared in the elderly brow, as bushy eyebrows were pushed closer towards the centre of the gnarled face.
“But you can’t tar them all with the…”
“…they constantly ignore us…” he continued, completely failing to see the irony.
“It’s not been easy for them…” Dom tried.
“Poppycock! They’ve had a second chance…”
“Still…”
“… and a third, fourth, fifth…”
“Well, yes, but…” Dom’s voice traield off and he sighed inwardly.
“There’s only so much leniency we can show,” insisted his partner. “After all, we are running a business.”

The pair had been walking in silence for a few minutes now.
“What’ll happen to them, old chap?” Dom knew the question proved a certain masochistic wish to persevere with something he should have left alone. But, like a dog rummaging through a bin, he never knew when to stop.
“Well, not a lot…” The reply had a dark undertone which was not lost on its small audience.
“You mean…?”
A nod told him all he needed to know.
“What, all of them…?”
Sam continued nodding.
“The entire planet? Completely wiped out?” The words had been spat out from beneath popping eyes.
“Mmm” was the only response.
“Hardly seems fair, old chap…” Dom’s manner was now that of a chastised schoolboy.
“But look at the state of the place.” Sam tottered slightly as he gestured expansively, before adding “I mean it’s not exactly a roaring success, is it? It’s the shareholders I feel sorry for.”
“We aren’t going to save one or two specimens? For future projects?”
“Mmm, possibly. Can’t see it’s worth it myself.”
Another pause inserted itself into the conversation.
“What was it called, again? Urr… Ith…?”
“Earth.” Dom’s response was tinged with remorse.
“Arth…?”
“No, old chap, ”˜Earth’ as in ”˜dirt.’”
“Earth… Earth… Odd name for a planet. Still, won’t matter much longer.”
Dom tried one last roll of the dice; “but think of the paperwork. Planet Demolition Forms alone are over a hundred pages long.”
“Ye-es…” The reply was accompanied by a long frown, “Still, it’s out of our hands.”
Sam glaced briefly at the ancient pocket watch, then replaced it the pocket of his equally ancient waistcoat.
“Well, best be getting on. I’ll buy you one of those strange local drinks ”“ what do they call it? Tea?”
Dom brightened slightly at the mention of his favourite Terran beverage.
“Yes, might as well enjoy a bit of local culture while we still can. I heard they make it with their own waste products.”
“I wouldn’t put anything past them. Y’know, I once met this chap… huge fellow…”

The two smartly-dressed old men rounded a corner and once again the park was silent, almost reflective. No-one would notice them, but then Earthites seldom paid attention.

Newspaper headlines 5th May 2012:
"USA gets disbanded" - The Times
"EU adopts America" - The Independent
"American chaos now our problem" - The Star
"Americans now in EU" - The Telegraph
"Chaos marks end of USA" - The Mail
"Amy Winehouse says no more drugs" - The Sun

Chapter 1

There were 5 candidates left, and 5 jobs left in the EU elections. Each person had to take a job. Each had hoped for Representative for Abundant Supplies. Each was fearing the worst. The ballet process had to be changed so the unfavorable jobs would have a
Minister. All the unwanted civil servants in the EU had already been reallocated, now all that was needed was a minister to front the department.

Each of the 5 candidates was still standing on the stage, 15 candidates already handed jobs. Some respectable, but all cushy. First of the remaining candidates was the Italian Marcos Salvani, who was hoping for an Italian position, but had been squeezed out of his countries affairs. Second was the Frenchman Yanos Yenta, of Japanese decent, which is said to be a contributing factor to him also being squeezed out of his counties politics. Next there was the ex-minister for agriculture from Luxembourg, and the Irish candidate who had his heart set on a good post, and his mind set on the after election party. Finally the Brit Sir Desmond Glazebroke, standing with a rather bemused look on his face.

One by one their names were called out, along with the post they had to fill.
The Italian was happy with his position as Minister for Cheese Preservation, and the Frenchman was delighted with his post intended to defend the vineyards of Europe. The Luxembourg minister was slightly less amused with his posting to the Irish Sea Coral Reef Detection Department, but the Irish minister was over the moon with his post of Beers and Ale representative for Europe.

One man got the most disappointing post. One man would have had the look of greatest disdain if he had much idea what was actually going on. One man got the post in the American Rejuvenation office.

Chapter 2

It was the first day of his reign in the department. His department. He walked into his new office as bold as brush, took of his coat, and hung it up with his hat and scarf.
"Right then! A new day, a new office. Lets get started. Where's the scotch?"
"In the cabinet beside your desk Minister, allow me" said the gentleman greeting the new Minister. It was his permanent secretary, Derek Hedge.
Hedge went over to the drinks cabinet and poured a single scotch for his new lord and master.
"There are just a few protocols we have to observe, I'll introduce you to a few of the members of staff that you'll be working with"
Glazebroke cut him off.
"Now there's no need to start going into all that palaver, I find it isn't much use anyway, I tend to forget most peoples name anyway, so I seldom bother even asking now. You tend not to when you get to my age. I once forgot who the Prime Minister is. It wouldn't have been so embarrassing if I wasn't having lunch with him at the time."
"Ok, well we still have the matter of a few meetings that have to be arranged, if I could discuss your diary?"
"Don't worry about it, what comes comes, just make sure we have the right drinks in the cabinet and we'll be fine"
"Very well. It's all fairly relaxing, there isn't that much to do as such."

The rest of the day dragged by with various meetings, most of the time Sir Desmond didn't seem to be going out of his way to understand what was going on. Eventually 4 o'clock came. Sir Desmond looked up, saw the clock and a smile appeared on his lips.
"Ah, look at the time my dear boy! Seems we managed to get through without any of those messy introductions after all. Been a bit of a busy one. What would you say to a glass of Chardonnay before home time?"
"Yes Minister. We don't actually have any Chardonnay, but I'm sure I can get some white sent up for you."
"What? No Chardonnay? How do they expect me to work without a tipple before home time. I mean, it's insufferable."
"Indeed Minister, however, with the chaos that reaped America in the revolt, all the wine, apart from the reserves we have in our little sanctuary here, and what we import yearly, have all been destroyed. I can request some to be shipped in on our next shipment, but that won't be for another 353 days."
"Well I'm afraid this simply isn't good enough. Why can't we do something about it and get some produced locally?"
"The situation has changed wildly Minister, America is no longer the commercial center it once was. Everything was torn down in the riots and wars that occurred when the country reached melt down. Now, although there were ideas to rebuild it, the overwhelming majority decided to just keep an eye on it and let it grow wild so to speak. There are a few little pockets of population, but nothing to speak of. The plan is that left to its own devices nature will take over and the country will get a negative carbon footprint to balance out the other global players who are unwilling to go green so to speak."
"Yes, that's all very well, but I need some Chardonnay. I don't care what we have to do. Make it ourselves if we have to. Wine comes from grapes if I recall, and they're green, so I don't see how this changes the plan."

Chapter 3

10 years later, by the end of Sir Desmond Glazebrokes term, America was 50% vineyards and was poised to be the worlds supplier of alcohol.

“Don’t worry, I underlined all the words you won’t understand and defined them below” stated the assistant shoving a crispy piece of paper into Mick’s wrinkled hand.

“Oh?” He replied in a higher than usual voice “Ok let’s have a look.” Slowly opening the paper enclosed loosely in his hand, terribly afraid to see how his intelligence would be judged, he looked wearily at the paper.

“Nuisance?” he quoted sharply in an even higher pitched voice.

The assistant rolled his hardened green eyes, giving a deep sigh of distain.

“As in the legal term, if you look down you’ll see the definiti…”

He gets cut off abruptly.

“I know what it means” he said bitterly “In fact I know what all of these words mean”

The assistance did not reply as quickly as he usually would, not because he couldn’t think of anything witty to say, but it was the rancid smell of Mick’s warm breath which was permitting him to do so.

“Look I’m only trying to help, if you didn’t want me to help, you would have written the speech yourself.” He replied steadily, then walked straight to the door of the office, turning himself strategically so he could look upon Mick's blank expressionless face as he shut the rosewood door behind himself.

Mick then stomped to his mirror, which hung neatly above his derelict bookcase and took a stern hard look at his aged face, all these years he thought, and I was spoken to like that by a mere youngster.

“My job may not command respect but, I’m going to be the best darn Hydrologic Technician this world has ever seen!” He said aloud bashing his fists hard against the bookcase.

At the same time, just a few moments away was Abiola Ojumu, who happened to also feel a lack of respect in the workplace. She was operating a crane which was carrying tidily lined stacks of concrete which had been arranged almost like how a serial killer would arrange the victims’ bodies, in a straight and orderly fashion. She was the only women working in her chosen field of construction.

“Easy there Abi don’t break a nail!” chortled one of her fellow employees, shortly followed by an eruption of laughter coming from the other macho men behind him.

She griped the lever tightly wanting nothing more but to drop the heavy load on all of them. No she squirmed at the thought of seeing their flattened bodies underneath.

“But a little scare tactics won’t hurt” she thought.

A broad smile possessed her face, her deep brown eyes bore red with rage and that once sweet face had been oh so quickly replaced with the projection of the contorted image of revenge. She grabbed onto the leverage lever and gripped it so tightly her knuckle bones almost pierced through her skin, glaring maniacally at faces of her workmates. While all this was going on Mick took a walk outside to clear his thoughts. Ironically doing nothing of the sort.

He stopped hastily. His eyes widened and he stood for seconds transfixed.

“No! My PARK… The CITIES PARK! NO HOW COULD THIS HAPPEN!” he yelled; so loudly his throat went hoarse.

His eye were bewitched by the unpleasant sight of what he was beholding, once a green open land which old couples came to feed the birds, where children and teenagers were never restricted with their choice of words, a place which was for the community was now a giant dusty construction field.

Abiola jerked suddenly startled by the sound of shouting, jolting the lever in her hand unexpectedly. The load turned, hovering over the construction team, who were completely oblivious. Consoling himself, Mick looked up in to the sky to clear the unpleasant vision from his eyes. But then was confronted with the enormous rusted crane which stood before him and the women sitting authoritatively inside it. He saw crazed the look in her eyes and the position of the concrete, he could see what was going to happen. But was it what Abiola’s plan for it to happen like that?

A strange wiry noise came from the crane which she hadn’t heard before. She looked up worriedly at the boom pendant which was supplying the tension to hold the load,it had begun to shear. Her heart began to beat heedlessly. She immediately turned to the shift to turn the boom tip safely away. Even with all her strength she couldn’t do it. It was stuck. She furiously tried to move it repeatedly hamming away at it.

“I’m not going to jail, not now not ever” she thought.

Mick snuck behind her intimidating vehicle and tried to disable it the only way he knew how… hydrologically of course. He proceeded to gently open the engine cover just below the faded what he deemed to be safety instructions. He knew that there was a water point around there somewhere. He knew exactly what to do but if only he had the tools. He rapidly looked around searching for anything he could use I mean if MacGyver could do it so could he. A stick - he thought.

“Hmm that should do”. He began to peal the weaker outside layer of the stick to make it in to a sharp point.

Unaware of Mick, she was panicking. Her mouth became so dry and she was not even able to scream. She passed out and the boom pedant tension was getting less and less.

SMACK! SMACK! Deeper and deeper into the ground he plugged. He had eventually reached the water causing the crane to slant water aiming it away from the workers below.

BANG! The boom pedant snapped and the concrete fell narrowly avoiding the macho men, who all screamed like a bunch of sissy girls.

Two years later Abiola was sent to jail, because of illegal drugs possession (no just kidding).