Gabriel D’Alesio

The Workplace Anarchist

            It had been a fairly quiet morning before Reb’s boss had entered the office space. As quiet as an office could get amidst an ambiance of keyboard clicks and computer warbles. Reb worked in a grey cubicle that comprised a small segment in a labyrinth of identical cubicles, the spaces only large enough to allow its tenant to swivel in their chair. Each held only an old computer terminal, a stack of folders neatly arranged as per office protocol and a framed, spotless photograph of their country’s leaders.

            Very rarely was there a touch of individuality in these cubicles; most employees never stayed long enough to even consider it, something Reb thought about as he and his colleagues watched one of their unfortunate peers get berated by their boss for a poorly timed slide switch during a meeting with the company’s shareholders. Heads peaked up from their cubicles like prairie dogs to witness the carnage. Today it was a mistimed slide switch, last week it was a minor calculation error in a financial report draft. Who knew what the future would hold.

            “You made me, and this entire division look like idiots!” his boss shouted, spittle flying from his fat jowls, coating the employee’s face. “You should be ashamed. You’re a sorry excuse for a human being, and I regret the lapse in judgement I made when I hired you. Get out!”

            “B-but sir, I— Please. I need this job, just give me a second chance,” the employee pleaded.

            “And now you’re talking back? Are you deaf? Security!”

            In the blink of an eye, two large men decked in black bulletproof armor and assault rifles rushed into the room. One grabbed the employee by the arm, the other pointed his rifle at the sobbing man’s head.

            “Take this trash and throw him to the street like the dog he is. Throw him in jail! Execute him for all I care. If he ever shows his face around here again, shoot him dead,” his boss shouted, dismissing them with a wave of his hand.

            The armed men pulled the employee out of the office while he begged and shouted. Soon they would be getting a new colleague.

            This sort of commotion was not unusual for the office, and so once the disgruntled employee was dragged out of the room and their boss had closed the door to his personal office, everyone sat back down. It had become a ritual now. Someone would be yelled at and fired while the rest watched, and once security was called in-- and they always were, their boss made sure of it-- to remove the employee, everyone would return to their station helplessly. Some, like Reb, sat in quiet resentment, but none acted up for fear that they might be next.

            Work began every day at 8:30 AM and Reb had never been late. Every day he would sit down in the chair that had become the bane of his lower back, and type data handed to him in the form of a stack of daily forms into his computer terminal, submitting them directly to his boss through the office’s network for revision. Their boss demanded the form transcriptions be submitted without a single error and so Reb would type and type impeccably every day until 4:30 PM when the clock next to his terminal would buzz, indicating that it was time to leave.

            As he sat back down and looked over the forms that had been neatly placed on his desk the night before, Reb’s interest was piqued by his newspaper. Normally, his paper was nothing more than a background piece; something he would glance at when it was handed off to him by the office courier and then forget about. But that morning, splayed across the front page, was a headshot of a man whom Reb thought looked almost too evil to be real; dark, shaggy hair covered his forehead and draped down his face, enveloping tired, sunken eyes that gave the impression of a monster staring through curtains. The bold lettering of the header and the subsequent article proclaimed the man as “Chip Sazerac”, the leader of an anarchist group that had abandoned society to live in the forest.

             The paper painted these forest dwellers in as negative a light as it could: disturbers of the peace whose only interest was to disrupt the comfortable lives of proper, law-abiding citizens. It clearly wanted its reader to be outraged, and it did everything but paint itself red to do so; any imaginable inconvenience in the daily life of the civilian, any possible fault in the system, it was all because of the rumpus these terrorists were brewing in their forest.

            But Reb didn’t hate them. He knew he should, the newspaper definitely wanted him to, but a thought dug at the back of his mind. Should these anarchists be considered evil for standing up against a power they believed was evil? Reb wondered if anyone else in the office thought the same. Were they really so bad?

            “Now that is a great question, Reb. Are they really so bad?” a voice called out from behind him.

            He figured that they must be, otherwise the paper wouldn’t be reporting on them. They had willingly removed themselves from the perfect lives their government had painstakingly devised for them. At the very least, they were undoubtedly ungrateful.

            “They’ve got to be, right? They deliberately chose to turn against society,” he responded aloud.

            Pausing for a moment, he spun around in his chair to see whom he had replied to. Jammed in the small space between Reb and the wall of his cubicle, was a man. His body was undefined, out of focus; only his head could be seen clearly. Dark, shaggy hair curtained his face, and an evil gleam danced in his tired eyes. As if he had stepped out of the newspaper, Chip Sazerac, or what appeared to be Chip Sazerac, had materialized before him.

            “Is society really all that great, though?” Chip asked.

            Reb froze and threw a quick glance outside his cubicle to make sure no one had heard him.

            “You could get arrested for asking something like that!” he hissed.

            At that moment, Reb’s boss, who had been going on his rounds as he did every morning, leaned into his cubicle. The armpits of his shirt were wet with sweat.

            “What’s all the commotion about, Reb?” he asked, a suspicious look creeping up his face as he noticed his employee apparently yelling at nobody.

            At the sight of his boss, Reb jumped in his seat and spun to face his terminal, straightening his back and resting his hands on his keyboard.

            “Uh, nothing, everything’s fine. Sorry.” He blurted.

            “Right,” his boss said, “You know, I’m never sure you’re fully there in the head, Reb. But at least you do decent work.”

            “Sorry, sir,” Reb said, dejectedly.

            “Mhmm,” his boss mumbled,  “You must have heard about those terrorists in the forest?”

            The ghostly manifestation of Chip Sazerac guffawed. “Terrorists!” he spat.

            “Yes,” Reb said, ignoring the spectre.

            Craning his neck, he looked his superior in the eyes.

            His boss met his gaze. “Terrible people, don’t you think?”

            “Yes. Very terrible.”

            “The thing’s they’ve done. The things they want to do… Terrible, terrible people. It’s a wonder nothing’s been done yet— I’ll say this, Reb, if I were in charge, there wouldn’t be much left of those terrorists,” he said—with as much contempt as he could inject into the word “terrorists” —and chuckled.

            Reb forced out a chuckle. If his boss laughed, he had to laugh too.

            “I would hope so, sir,” he managed to choke out.

            Chip Sazerac spoke up, “I don’t know about you, Reb, but I don’t recall any specific acts of terror being mentioned in that news article.”

            Reb stared at the spectre, and then at his boss, and gulped.

            Seemingly unaware of Chip Sazerac, Reb’s employer sighed and looked up from his cubicle. “Right. I can tell you’re not much for conversation,” he said, rapping the top of the cubicle’s divider. “Keep up the good work, Reb,” he added, before sauntering off.

            Reb went back to quietly typing at his terminal, trying his best to ignore the anarchical  phantom hanging behind him. The letters on his keyboard were worn off from prolonged use, but he had memorized the layout long before it had become an issue and was able to type without even looking down at his keys. An hour crept by. The click-clack of his keyboard was a monotonous symphony that filled the void of Reb’s mind, accompanied by the white characters on his cathode ray screen that burned themselves into the back of his eyes. His hands operated independently from him with such efficiency that his thoughts began to wander. He considered the anarchists again, and their leader.

            As if reading his mind, Chip Sazerac spoke up.

            “I think you need some change, Reb,” he said.

            Reb didn’t respond but stopped typing.

            “You’ve been playing it safe your whole life. You pull your socks up to your knees, you always keep your hair well groomed, and you even wash your hands twice before leaving the washroom!”

            Reb remained silent. He leaned his head in his left hand.

            “Don’t you want to be more like me?”

            Finally, Reb spoke. “Will you please just leave me alone?” he begged.

“Reb, please. As long as you doubt yourself—as long as you’re unsure—I’m going to be here.” Chip scoffed.

“Well, what do you want me to do?!” Reb shouted, spinning to face his tormentor.

Chip Sazerac floated above Reb and shouted back, “Cause a disturbance! Disrupt the peace! Show that fascist boss of yours what’s what! That’s what you thought when you read the article, am I right? Be more like me!”

Reb’s mouth hung open, and he stared into the apparition’s dark eyes.

 “No. Out of the question. I could get arrested… or worse!” he hissed.

Chip Sazerac chuckled, breathing some life into Reb’s cubicle for a moment. “Of course not! Start small—” he paused to look around the room. “Turn off the lights.”

The lights? Reb glanced over at the light switch across the room. It seemed farther than usual. It seemed ridiculous. He thought about the article. Chip Sazerac had a point, part of him definitely wished he had the courage to stand up to his boss and tell him a thing or two, but anytime that thought arose he reminded himself about the security guards standing outside the office with their rifles. The lights, Reb thought again. It was a simple thing: turn them off, and then turn them back on. No one would be hurt, and he probably wouldn’t get in trouble. Clenching his jaw, Reb stood up, his back and legs like stone that he had to take a moment to crack. Seeing his resolve, Chip Sazerac smiled and patted him on the back.

“Yes, Reb! Yes! I’ll be right behind you the whole time. You can do this.”

            Reb made his way toward the light switch, glancing at the other employees as he went. None of them seemed suspicious of him. None of them even looked back at him. .

At the switch, he stood erect and cautiously scanned the room for anyone that might be watching, while nervously checking his wristwatch and tapping his foot on the carpeted floor. Chip Sazerac had followed and stood behind him at the bend in the wall, observing the room with his partner. After a moment, he decided the coast was clear and shot Reb a blurry thumbs-up. Time slowed; Reb knew that he jolted his wrist up in an instant, but he felt as if time were mocking him, deliberately creeping by slower than usual at the moment that the switch flipped from “On” to “Off”, only to come crashing down in a split-second.

Darkness engulfed the room, and the cold light of the computer terminals illuminated the employees’ puzzled faces. Many looked up from their screens under the assumption that someone was trying to get their attention. Whispers began circulating. Before anyone could ask what the matter was, the lights were back on, and Reb stood shaking at the switch. Adrenaline coursed through his veins, and he could feel his heart pounding against his ears. A feeling of power overwhelmed him for a moment, only to be quickly extinguished by embarrassment.

            “Sorry everyone, sorry” he blurted, “I… must have grazed it as I was walking by.”

            His co-workers were visibly startled, and Reb heard their murmured exchanges:

            “…Is he insane...?”

            “…only fired, if he’s lucky…”

            “…wouldn’t have done that, just pretend like you don’t know him…”

            A few looked towards their boss’s office, as if waiting for a bomb to go off. But nothing came.

            Reb’s face went red. Straightening out his jacket, he cleared his throat and rushed back to his cubicle in a huff, pushing through a fog of whispers and gossip along the way.

             Chip Sazerac followed closely and cheered, “Brilliantly done, Reb! Fabulous! You remind me of when I shut off the power at the central bank. It was an illuminating experience. Now, to figure out what to do next—"

Unauthorized tale usage: if you spot this story on Amazon, report the violation.

            “I can’t do that again. We’re done. You can leave,” Reb interrupted.

            “Ah, but we’ve only just gotten started, Reb! They’ll be expecting more.”

            But Reb continued quietly to his cubicle, ignoring his companion. He sat back down in his chair— which felt even less comfortable than usual— and went to type more instructions into his terminal.

***

            When lunch came around, Chip Sazerac still had not disappeared. He passed the time by recounting his political escapades if only to remind Reb that he was indeed still there, and that he wouldn’t be going away anytime soon. Reb ignored him for the most part, but what he had difficulty looking past was the feeling of turning the lights out. It had felt good. A tremendous rush had awakened his old, still heart. It was a dangerous feeling, Reb knew, but it was one that had burrowed itself into the back of his head like a thirsty tick on a dog’s coat.

            He thought about it as he entered the breakroom, he thought about it as he stood up to fill up his coffee, and he thought about it as stared at the caffeinated and decaffeinated pots on the countertop. As he reached for the caffeinated pot, Chip Sazerac, who had been sitting next to him, hovered over to Reb’s hear and whispered.

            “Reb. I’ve thought up another way to disrupt the system.”

            “I told you I won’t,” Reb whispered back, in an effort to appear inconspicuous to the lunch-goers around him. “You saw how they reacted when I turned the lights off. If they get anxious or, god forbid, they tell the boss about what I’ve been up to…”

            “Ah, but Reb!” Chip interrupted “I would never put you in harms way. And you thought it yourself, you’ve never felt more alive. Look, at least hear what I have to say first.”

            Pouring himself a cup, he replied “Fine.”

            “Switch the caffeinated and the decaffeinated pots. Cripple the workforce!”, he exclaimed, punctuating the last phrase by clenching his undefined fist.

            Cripple the workforce? Switch the coffee pots? Again, Reb hesitated, glancing at the “caffeinated” and “decaffeinated” labels above each container. He felt a twinge of that indescribable rush. It was not a productive mindset. No, in fact it could get him in heaps of trouble if he let it develop. If word got to his boss that he had been wasting time like this on the clock, sabotaging the workflow, who knew what sort of punishment would come for him?

            But in the wick of his soul, an ember remained that burned away at his doubt. No matter how much he blew at it, the kindling only lit again. As he looked at Chip Sazerac and the two pots, he felt its intensity grow. It could be more, he thought, he would be able to feel the whole inferno if he only switched the two pots. He knew it.

            He waited until the last of his colleagues had left the breakroom. If he was going to enact his gambit, it had to be now, while he was out of sight. With great speed called on by a hit of epinephrine, he grabbed the caffeinated and decaffeinated pots and switched their places.

            Reb gasped. He couldn’t believe how good he felt. That rush at the light switch was nothing but a blip in his memory compared to the euphoria he felt now. A bonfire erupted inside of him, and Chip Sazerac watched on, pleased with his partner’s progress.

            “Excellent job once again, Reb!” he shouted. “You’re becoming a real pro at this!”

            Reb didn’t respond right away. He stood at the counter, watching the dark liquid in each clear container ripple until it settled. The labels above each were incorrect now, and it was all because of him. For a moment he considered switching them back, his adrenaline would wear off and he would feel the same embarrassment that forced him to turn the lights back on…

            But does it have to wear off? he wondered. At this point, it wasn’t completely out of the question for him to continue with these stunts if he just stayed out of his boss’s sight. In for a penny, in for a pound. If he could keep this up, he might never have to feel the dead trance his job had been putting him in ever again. He spun to look at Chip Sazerac, whose face lit up at the sight of Reb’s tenacity.

            “That felt amazing,” Reb confessed, catching his breath.

            He took a moment to collect his thoughts, and made his decision: “I’m in. If this is what it’ll be like, I’m in. What do we do next?”

            “I like your determination Reb,” Chip Sazerac replied, wagging his blurry index finger at him. “You remind me of myself when I was young and ambitious, ready to grab the world by the horns, a fearless matador. But we have to slow down and plan. Revolutions like this take patience.”

            “We can’t just take someone’s name tag off their lunch and say it’s communal? Or replace the letter paper in the printer with legal paper?”

Chip Sazerac’s boisterous laughter filled the room. “All great ideas, Reb, but all in good time. For now, get back to your cubicle and wait for the fruits of our efforts to blossom. We’ll start planning more from there.”

And so, Reb headed back to his cubicle, occasionally turning back to look at the break room. As he sat down in his chair, he stared at the folders slumped on his desk, their bellies filled with the white fat that he would have to tear out and transcribe for the rest of the day—for the rest of his life— and felt resentment.

***

            Lunch had passed and the afternoon was coming along. While Reb typed at his terminal, he began noticing strange behaviours in his coworkers. Colleagues that he knew to be calm and calculated were tapping their feet and becoming jittery. Several times throughout the afternoon he noticed a few stand up and take a brisk walk around the office before sitting back down and resuming their fast beat of tapping their shoes. Even more bizarre were the colleagues that were always the most productive during afternoons. Now they were practically slapping themselves to stay awake. Every so often they would rush to the break room to grab another cup of coffee to put off the spell, only to find their eyelids heavier than before. Reb swore he even saw one of his coworkers sleeping at his desk before waking up with a jolt. Of course, no one reported the incidents; they didn’t want to cause a scene.

            “Was that us?” Reb asked, turning in his chair to face his partner.

            Chip Sazerac smiled, “That was you, Reb.”

            Reb watched another employee practically jog by his cubicle. Another victim of his nefarious plot.

            “Did we do the right thing? What if they get in trouble?” Reb frowned.

             “I wouldn’t worry about it, Reb. Besides, this is all part of the plan!” Chip Sazerac replied, brushing a lock of hair from his face.

            “The plan?” Reb raised his voice, “They could get fired for this. People have been fired for less than this.”

            Chip Sazerac floated over to Reb’s desk and sat on what little space remained of it. “So impatient, Reb! Fine. You don’t need to worry because the boss won’t be worrying about them. He’ll be worrying about you instead.” He said, clapping his unfocused hands together.

            Reb furrowed his brow.

            “Our next move is one I want us to get caught for,” Chip Sazerac revealed, as a magician would reveal a rabbit from his hat.

            This caught Reb by surprise, “Why?” he asked.

            “Let me just say, you’ve been doing splendidly thus far,” he started, looking his friend in the eyes through a curtain of loose strands of hair, “However, to properly be labeled as a threat, one has to be acknowledged as such by a body of power. If we continue operating in the shadows, that will never happen.”

            Reb was silent. Chap Sazerac had a point, but thus far, he’d been committing his heinous crimes with the assurance that he wouldn’t be caught. Or if not, then at least, it was a possibility that he didn’t want to admit to himself. Indeed, the idea of becoming an anarchist had been made alluring thanks to the efforts of his companion, but now that he was faced with actually being recognized as one, he was afraid. Getting caught meant he would get in trouble, he would get fired, and he didn’t know what would happen afterwards. He could lose everything, his whole life. He had a home, —albeit a very small one—a bed— although it was uncomfortable— food and water. He had everything he needed, and he was afraid of losing it. That fear crept up his body, and he felt start to himself hyperventilate, each stuttering breath blowing out the once mighty bonfire in his chest.

            Reb stared at the fat folders and the old computer terminal on his desk, and he wondered if maybe the life he had grown to resent wasn’t so bad. He must have made a face because Chip Sazerac spoke up immediately.

            “No, Reb, not when you’ve come this far already.” His voice was stern for the first time since they had met.

            “This is going too fast. How do I know if this is right for me? How do I know that I won’t regret this?” Reb blurted out.

             “I’m still here, aren’t I? Your resolve hasn’t died yet.” Chip Sazerac said, leaning in closely.

            “I—I—” Reb stammered, “No. I can’t do this, I’m sorry. I know I said I was in, but this is too much. I could get killed for this.”

            Returning to face his computer terminal, Reb placed his hands over his keyboard, but found he wasn’t able to type.

            Chip Sazerac sighed. His ephemeral form flickered, like a candle being blown on.  

            “Reb, look at it this way,” he started, “If you don’t do this now, you’ll either get caught somewhere down the line for switching the pots and you’ll get fired, or you’ll be stuck working this job until you’re inevitably fired for something that wasn’t in your control.”

            Reb stayed quiet but listened intently.

            “Don’t make this something you end up regretting, Reb. Think about how much stress and dissatisfaction this job has caused you. Think about how good it will feel to finally show that dictator of a boss that you aren’t going to let him treat you like the rest.”

            Reb stopped. He looked around and thought. Focus on the pain, he told himself, and suddenly it was as if the curtains had been pulled back. He saw his claustrophobic cubicle and he hated how it didn’t give him any space to stretch. He saw his old computer terminal and he hated how its white characters burned his eyes. He saw his fat yellow folder full of forms, and he hated how he would have to work overtime transcribing the instructions within.

            He let out a deep breath, “Okay” he said.

            “Okay?” Chip Sazerac prodded.

            “Okay.” Reb said again, “You’re right… You’re right. I’m in. What do we do?”

            “Wonderful Reb!” Chip Sazerac clapped. “I knew you’d see it my way. We need to do something that will catch your superior’s eye. I’m thinking—”

            “I know what to do.” Reb interjected, “The boss’s computer has direct feedback from our terminals. Whenever we submit our data, the server checks for any typos or nonsensical phrases and sends us a warning which the boss also sees. If I create enough of those warnings, he’s sure to notice.”

            Chip Sazerac grinned and folded his arms.

             “The student surpasses the teacher, Reb!”

            Reb spun to face his old terminal. His heartrate increased, and his hands shook as they hovered over the keyboard, but he went straight to work. Opening up a new window for data entry, he immediately started typing in nonsensical phrases and profanity. As he raised his finger over the “Enter” key, he hesitated for a moment. Once he pressed this button, there would be no turning back. After a moment’s thought he firmed his resolve and slammed his finger down. His eyes were attacked by a glaring, red “WARNING” box that indicated he had entered incorrect data. In all the years that Reb had worked for his company, he had never seen that red box. Along with the box came an influx of adrenaline that made his mouth curl into a smile and his hands shake even more, so much so that he almost found it difficult to continue typing.

            He had to continue forcing the system to give him warnings. Opening up a new window, he entered more profanity and nonsense. He felt silly knowing this was the worst he could do and wished that he could do something a little more spectacular. Nonetheless, he pressed on. Hitting “Enter” again, the same red box appeared. His boss must have noticed something was wrong by now.

            To make the process easier, Reb alternated hitting the “D” key and “Enter” one after the other, generating a flurry of red warning boxes, each overlapping the other, until his screen was overwhelmed by garbled mess of crimson lettering.

            Reb heard his boss’s office door slam open and turned to Chip Sazerac, who chuckled.

            “Reb!” he heard being shouted from across the room. As he had hoped, his boss stormed out of his office on the other side of the room.

            Chip Sazerac laughed. “You’re really in for it now, Reb!”

            “Reb!” he shouted, as he stomped over to his subordinate’s cubicle. “What the hell is the matter with you?! Of all the idiotic things to do, you have to waste my time along with your own?! I always figured you had a screw or two loose but—”

            Shifting his gaze from his ghostly companion to his boss, Reb met him in the aisle, pointed his finger and shouted “No, director! In fact, for the first time since I started at this damned company, I feel like I’m finally sane! I see through your façade now and I’m not going to be your subservient pawn anymore!”

            “What the hell are you talking about Reb?! You sound like one of those terrorists!”

            “Fuck you” Reb spat. It felt great to finally say that.

            His boss’s eyes widened, and his jaw fell slack for a moment, his jowls falling to the side like a bulldog’s.

            “Beautiful, Reb! Now, deliver the killing blow!” Chip Sazerac cheered.

            Reb stared at Chip Sazerac, and back at his screen. Before his boss could act, he went and forced his hands underneath the terminal—it was much heavier than he had thought—and, summoning all his strength, lifted it from its place on his desk before throwing it down with all his might. It crashed down onto the floor, shattering its casing, and spilling all of its contents out in his cubicle and into the aisle outside it, pooling around the stupefied boss’s feet. The rest of the office grew astonishingly silent, and Reb saw a few of his coworkers’ heads pop up from their cubicles to see what had happened. Whispers filled the room.

            His boss’s face went red. Whether from anger or embarrassment, Reb didn’t care; in his mind, he had just won.

            His superior didn’t even yell, it was as if he were holding back, instead he whispered through gritted teeth, “In all my years, Reb—” his fists were clenched, a vein on his forehead looked like it would burst.

            “Security!” he shouted.

            As Reb had expected, it took only a few seconds for the armed men to arrive. In that time, he decided he didn’t want to wait and see what his boss would decide for him, and so, with his ghostly companion in tow, Reb made for the emergency exit and disappeared out the door.

            The rest of the employees looked around, confused at the intensity of the events that had taken place over such a short amount of time. Looking at the exit, and then to their boss, they decided it wasn’t worth thinking about much longer, and sat back down at their terminals.

            “Everybody back to work!” their boss shouted, before making his way back to his office and slamming the door.

***

            Meanwhile, Reb ran through the city, cutting through crowds and alleys, stopping occasionally to see if the armed men were trailing him. He didn’t see them, but not wanting to risk the chance, he kept moving. He didn’t know where he was headed except that it needed to be away from the office.

            All the while, Chip Sazerac floated close by and struggled to contain his excitement.

            “You did it Reb! You did it! He said you sounded like a terrorist!” Chip cheered.

            Although Reb was too busy navigating the streets to respond, he basked in that giddy feeling. For a moment, the air felt fresher, the sky bluer. For a moment he was free. But seeing the faces of the comers and goers of the city, he realized that he was no longer one of them. This disconnection leeched onto his mind as aimlessly made his way outside of the city.

            He ran until he eventually reached the outskirts of the city, where a large grassy field stretched out until it touched the border of the forest that was said to hide the terrorists’ base of operations.

            Chip Sazerac hung closely behind him.

            “What will you do now, Reb?” he asked.

            Looking behind him at the city where he had spent his whole life up until now, Reb wondered whether he had it in him to turn back and try again, but he knew it was too late. He had made his decision long before.

            Turning again to face the forest, he started to sprint through the field. The tall blades of grass brushed against his legs and mud accumulated on the soles of his shoes. His path was made clear as the forest ahead of him seemed to open its arms to welcome him into its lush grasp.

            “Run, Reb, run!!” Chip Sazerac called from behind him, but as Reb turned to see how close his companion was, he noticed that the apparition was no longer there.

            And so, Reb disappeared into the forest, its arms closed around him, and he was lost to the world he once knew.

***

            The next day, as the employees at Reb’s office filed in, sat down at their seats, and prepared to type in more instructions handed to them through daily forms, several had their interest piqued by the newspaper. Splayed across the front page was coverage of a man who had selfishly abandoned the life that the government had built for him to become an anarchist. Before closing off, it warned the rest of the good, law-abiding citizens to watch out for the evil that may lurk among them.