A short comedy
December 13, 2025
One
The surface world, 9AM, in the lobby of a monumentous, and rather extravagant building commissioned by an ancient regime. Officially purposed to serve as the tax office, the building is secretly dedicated to the Department of the Unnamed Ancient Evil Deep Below Paris, the UAEDBP, pronounced “oo-wad-e-bop”.
Six months ago, Jean-Phillipe had been a tax-man of an altogether different sort; an accounting whizz with a penchant for routine and a scrupulous attention to detail. Recruitment into this organisation began as fairly usual, his line manager giving him the tip-off that he was in line for a lucrative internal promotion, if he played his cards right. As Jean-Phillipe’s application progressed, however, it became apparent that they must have been observing him for decades, subjecting him to minute behavioural surveillance, going all the way back to his beginnings in this job. They were fairly candid about this, telling him of their scouting him for “markers” — traits including the ability to keep a secret, and others of a more fantastical nature which Jean-Philippe did not at all comprehend.
Tax documents were arriving now, he was relieved to see. He watched them glide across the lobby towards him, tapping his foot impatiently as he stood by the document shaft. They were well under-quota, and being under-quota could potentially spell the doom of all mankind.
In spite of the high stakes, his work was not perilous and his part in it was altogether easy. Jean-Philippe’s part, in truth, essentially consisted of arranging the delivery of bureaucratic documents — taken from all over the world — and throwing them down a mine shaft that he was told extended all the way down to the earth’s fiery core. The documents ranged in language and purpose; all that mattered was that they had been filled sincerely, and by a human being. It was also important that the homo-sapiens in question had undergone some mental, emotional or spiritual strain during the creation of the document. All this was measurable, using the latest modern equipment. Despite the fact that the documents should have already been processed thoroughly, Jean-Philippe liked to give them one last good check before he threw them down the well. His ennui-counter crackled as he waved it over each stack, then “SCHOOM” went the documents, as he tossed them down the pipe.
As is perhaps apparent from their international nature, this effort was being conducted with the knowledge and co-operation of the top levels of all of the world’s most powerful governments, even among those who may be mutual enemies. The reason for their steadfast loyalty to the programme lay in the terror which would be inflicted on everyone if the UAEDBP was unable to meet its quota; for at the bottom of the shaft, at the centre of the Earth’s core, lay a demon of immense proportion with an insatiable desire to consume the human energies entombed within these documents. If the demon was not continuously fed, then it would rise up and destroy the world; at the very least it would destroy the Republic, leaving behind permanent, irreversible, pandemonium.
Of this nobody could be sure, but everybody was certain.
Two
About 200 metres below the surface, 9:15AM.
“Long Live the Under People!” went the shrill cry of three-hundred-thousand rats, a mere handful of the loyal subjects of a noble empire from time immemorial, but an impressive workforce nonetheless.
Kragaz looked over his workforce with pride. He had been a Filer since he was a boy; now 20 years old he had ascended to Senior Management, an honour bestowed upon him in recognition of years of service and of living to an abnormally old age, for a rat.
Kragaz did not dwell on this, for he did not have the attention span required to let his mind wander for very long — in any case the grueling demands of this industry forbade it. The late-shift had now stopped work and it was time for the early-shift to begin; there could be no dilly-dallying. Seemingly to illustrate this, at that very moment a wad of documents flew down Shaft 44A without warning. They landed with a thud and a screech as an unsuspecting worker was crushed to death under their weight.
The Gods sent them so much paperwork these days. All Senior Management agreed that it must mean they were delighted with the… er, progress. “File the fodder, and the Gods will send us bountiful food”, so said the priests.
“To work!” Kragaz shrieked. His loyal workforce obeyed, scurrying frantically to their stations. Within seconds, the new pages had been collected, separated, and re-ordered. The details of this work are complex, but put briefly, the pages are categorised based on any number of qualifying factors, such as the presence or absence of a little number in the corner of the page, the type of paper used, and the size of the font. Thankfully Kragaz’s expert workers can handle it all in a matter of seconds, and the newly ordered documents are were sent to the specialists for analysis.
The older rats working in analysis are given to a number of different specialisations relating to the aforementioned categories, but they largely complete the same work of analysing the documents and discerning their purpose. This work can also be very complex, but thankfully the arsenal of analytical methods available to such rats are wide and varied; typically one analysis will employ a range of approaches. One example analysis could involve: looking over the documents – holding them up to the light – nibbling at the edges — and finally, rolling them around in the palms of one’s paws. Once analysed, the documents are ordered by vibe and loaded into the appropriate magazine. At the very end of the shift, there is a brief inspection from Senior Management, then each magazine is fired one at a time from a cannon. The magazines land (hopefully) into the corresponding section of an enormous filing cabinet, now in their rightful place.
Here the documents are left to rot.