Dear Mr Obiwank
Re: your communication dated September 2, nominal year of Our Overlord 2013, to wit, quote:
Dear the Council, Fuck off. Regards, S. Oberon.
We have, regrettably, been unable to administer timely response due to regrettable circumstances which have, regrettably, resulted in us being forced to periodically give a shit (or, regrettably, seeming as if this were, in fact, the case). This is, you should be aware, entirely your fault.
It should be additionally noted that, due to incorrect addressing of your complaint, we have been unable to reply in a SMART-targeted, timely fashion. It should be appendagely, additionally noted that any further complaints correspondence should be directly addressed to the Complaints Officer by name (please note that the names of Council Officers are not released due to data protection protocols).
We regret the lament inherent in your communiqué, Mr Obiwank, and we sincerely trust that we, The Council, might one day muster the requisite wherewithal to give a shit.
Sal Oberon folded the neutrally-coloured, logo-embossed paper back into its pasty aubergine-tinted envelope with the crinkly plastic see-through address panel peeling itself from the edges. He stared with pointed effort at the nameless drone of a Council clerk sat at the pale beige and rounded, safety-cornered, utterly uncluttered desk in front of him.
‘That’s a pithy little anecdote, Mr Obiwank . . .’
‘Yes. That’s a pithy little anecdote, Mr Obiwank, but regrettably, it doesn’t explain your unauthorised three year absence from normal functioning society, now does it?’
Sal Oberon briefly fluttered his greasy wings, pondering which choice morsel might readily reduce her to a gibbering wreck if she deigned to patronise him one more time, before side-tracking himself by grumbling incoherently.
‘I’m sorry, Mr Obiwank?’
Sal Oberon growled.
‘It’s not an anecdote. It’s a letter. From your lot.’
‘There’s a lot of apathy around in the Forest. Regrettably. I’ve been out of the loop. Again. Fell into the effluent discharge, overspill from Council HQ, no doubt.’
He flapped the envelope aimlessly. The Council clerk drone raised an eyebrow.
‘Hmm. Indeed, Mr Obiwank.’
‘Yes. Well. Regrettably, it would seem that you need to fill out an Equal Opportune form.’
‘Form 326b/111. An Equal Opportune form. Council policy, which your unauthorised absence from normal functioning society has prevented you from engaging with. Everyone has the right to be fairly convenienced by officially pointless Council bureaucracy.’
Sal Oberon gently pushed the second letter in his possession, the Unauthorised Absence Summons, across the uncluttered pale beige desk.
‘I’m not paying this nine hundred groat charge. Please feel free to shove it somewhere unseemly.’
The clerk drone raised her other eyebrow.
‘Mr Obiwank . . .’
Sal Oberon sighed.
‘. . . your attitude is regrettable. Please fill out this Equal Opportune form . . .’
Sal Oberon folded his arms and slouched his wings over the edge of the chair. The clerk drone scowled.
‘Very well, Mr Obiwank. We’ll do it together.’
‘I wouldn’t do it with you if you were covered in chocolate and strung up by the nipples underneath a drip tray behind the bar.’
The clerk drone shuffled uncomfortably in her chair before fumbling with the regulation plum-coloured pen and the aubergine-tinted Form 326b/111.
‘Mr Obiwank, what is your self-recognised ethnicity? Pixie, fairy, elf, goblin, imp, mixed-troll . . .?’
‘None of the above. Breathing entity.’
The clerk drone frowned.
She wrote in careful plum on the aubergine form.
‘Do you consider yourself either dyslexic, dyspraxic, disabled, dysfunctional, dystopian, or dysenteric?’
‘Dysinterested and dyseased [sic].’
The clerk sighed.
‘Mr Obiwank. Please do take this seriously.’
She wrote it.
‘What, Mr Obiwank, is your sexual preference? Straight, bi, semi-curious, homosexual, trisexual, quadrosexual, experimental, or unhealthily abnormal?’
Sal Oberon lifted an eyebrow.
‘I have a penchant for screwing cotton socks and old rubber boots. Next question?’
The clerk drone rustled the paper and pressed a staple into its corner, just in case it escaped no other leaf attached to it and, more importantly, because it was Council protocol and it needed SMART-focused filing.
Sal Oberon frowned.
‘Are we done here?’
‘That will be all, Mr Obiwank.’
‘And the nine hundred groat fine?’
‘I’ll pass it on to the Department of Internal Affairs and Extenuating Apathy.’
Sal Oberon stood up and shook off his wings.
‘Good. Pleasure doing business with you. I hope your tits drop to below your ankles in your old age and that they trip you over in many splendid and comedically karmic ways.’
The clerk drone averted her eyes to ruthlessly file her form.
‘Yes,’ she mumbled. ‘Warm regards, Mr Obiwank.’
Sal Oberon shuffled out of the cubicle, stepped out into ‘normal functioning society’, and sniffed the toxic effluent of squalid forest air, kicking an errant toad in the face, making it croak out of its arse as he went by.