The Head

“You must understand, I don’t make the rules,” said the Head of Potential Forensics, meekly pushing his glasses up his nose. “I just enforce the ones that haven’t been made yet.”

The Head was aptly titled. His head was enormous.

Guards armed with sparking truncheons populated the room, standing statue still. Their black helmets stood out against the sterile white backdrop. The air conditioner hummed.

The Head reached into his drab gray suit, pulling out some Chew-Star gum. He offered me some, but I declined. He continued with his spiel, chewing all the while: “Your shop-- what is it called, 3-Star Variety, I believe?-- carries a brand of sanitary napkins manufactured by our future enemies in the Econoberian Emirates.”

I interrupted. “But we’ve been allies with Econoberia for decades!”

A guard jabbed me. The voltage was set low.

“They are slated to engage in aggressive military maneuvers against us come Thermidor. We are planning to escalate the situation to a full on war. In the months leading up to that point, would it really hurt you store-owners to support our economy instead of dealing pre-contraband materials?” he asked, a vague sense of patriotism supplanting his monotone drawl.

“I’m sorry! I didn’t know! I’ll support our economy! I’ll do anything!”

The guard readied himself to deliver another blow, when his helmet started to beep. Information danced across all the guards’ visors.

Black-gloved hands firmly gripped the Head by his arms. It was the largest of the guards who read him which of his rights they had revoked.

“The President of Chew-StarCo. will defect to Econoberia in the coming war. You are charged with possession of potentially illicit goods, and aiding and abetting a future enemy. As of now, speech and silence are privileges, which we shall oversee.”