Recursion #1
Fenton pulled off his belt and shoes and dropped them into the plastic bin along with keys, spare change, wallet, and reading glasses. In another bin, he laid out his carry on, a small backpack in which he had stashed a T-shirt and underwear, tooth brush and deodorant, and a discreet baggy of cocaine. He walked through the body scanner without incident and waited on the other side while a Customs and Border Security Agent inspected his personal items. Once cleared, Fenton laced his shoes, put on his belt, threw his back pack over a shoulder, and stuffed his pockets with the remainder of his personal items, all except his wallet which he opened so he could flash his ID: Customs and Border Security Agency Audit Department.
Three agents worked each row of passengers. One passed out plastic bins and examined passports. A second sat in front of a screen that displayed x-ray images of personal items in the plastic bins. The third summoned passengers to walk through the body scanner. When Fenton flashed his ID and told the agents he was from the audit department, they made no move to stop what they were doing. Maybe they didn’t believe him. After all, the audit department was relatively new and none of these agents had met a CBSAAD agent before. Such beings were mythical creatures, the stuff of legend, or at least of interdepartmental rumour. Fenton ordered the agents to close the line and come with him. He led them to a secret interview room where he spoke to them one at a time while the other two agents sat outside the room on cold metal chairs.
The first two interviews went as one would expect. With a dramatic flourish, Fenton slapped the baggy of cocaine onto the table and declared that they had committed a dereliction of duty by allowing him to sneak contraband into a secure area. The agents demonstrated an appropriate amount of contrition. They apologized and promised it would never happen again. Fenton assured them that because it was a first offence, and because they appeared committed to the success of their agency, this incident would have no lasting impact upon their careers. Both were visibly relieved. All it would take, he said, was a small donation to his son’s education fund. When he spoke the words son’s education fund, he used air quotes to make it clear there wasn’t an actual education fund. There might not be an actual son either. To each agent, he gave a bitcoin account number where they could make their donation.
The third interview was not so profitable. Fenton slapped the baggy of cocaine on the table, and he gave his spiel about dereliction of duty, but when he made his appeal for a donation to his son’s education fund, the third agent dug into his pocket and pulled out a special ID card: Customs and Border Security Agency Audit Department Compliance Division, or CBSAADCD for short. Responding to rumours that the CBSAAD might be failing to monitor the CBSA’s performance, the Ministry of Tourism and Immigration (MOTAI for short) had created a special oversight branch, the CBSAADCD to ensure the integrity of the CBSAAD.
The CBSAADCD agent lowered his voice and said that he was willing to overlook Fenton’s indiscretion if Fenton made a donation to his daughter’s dance lessons. When he spoke the words daughter’s dance lessons, he used air quotes to make it clear there weren’t actual dance lessons. There might not even be an actual daughter. Fenton reached into his pocket, a motion that suggested he might well comply with the CBSAADCD agent’s request. Instead, Fenton declared that he was, in fact, part of a sting operation orchestrated by the Customs and Border Security Agency Audit Department Compliance Division Oversight Committee and produced an ID card emblazoned with the letters CBSAADCDOC.
Recursion #2
George R. R. Martian had an optics problem. The best-selling author of Song of Fur and Ass made most of his sales through Amozan, the legendary online retailer. By advertising a lightning fast delivery service, Amozan had created a perverse incentive for its delivery drivers to rush around without regard for human life. In the previous week, Amozan delivery drivers had struck and killed nine pedestrians in various locations throughout the country. In the latest incident, the driver had been hurrying to deliver a complete collection of George R. R. Martian’s novels when he (the driver) struck ninety-year-old Marjorie Sims who was crossing the street on her way to visit her podiatrist (bunions). Although there was no way one could suggest that Mr. Martian was responsible (legally or morally) for Mrs. Sims’ death, nevertheless he felt badly for the family. By way of compensation, he offered to pay for the funeral as long as they didn’t mind butt naked pall bearers.
Bobby Wardwood, legendary investigative journalist, had long held Amozan in high contempt, both for its cannibalizing effect on small local businesses and for the egregious wealth it conferred upon its founder and principal shareholder. The Marjorie Sims incident was too good an opportunity to pass up. He interviewed George R. R. Martian. He attended the funeral and spoke to members of the family. He even shouted a few questions at Amozan’s owner as the great man himself descended the steps of the divorce court. From his varied researches, Wardwood cobbled together an exposé which he sold to an important publishing house. As a term of sale, Wardwood relinquished responsibility for marketing to his publisher which used Amozan as one of its principal sales tools. A week after publication, an Amozan driver in Des Moines struck and killed Neil Cicada, an elderly singer on his way to an appointment with his proctologist (enlarged prostate gland). Shortly after the “accident”, the Des Moines Register learned that the driver of the delivery van had been rushing to drop off a copy of Bobby Wardwood’s new exposé on a 24 hour delivery guarantee. Although there was no way one could suggest that Mr. Wardwood was responsible (legally or morally) for Mr. Cicada’s death, nevertheless, he felt badly for the family. By way of compensation, he offered to pay for the funeral as long as they didn’t mind tape-recorded scripture readings delivered by flashlight.
Danny Lead, legendary investigative journalist, had long held exploitative journalist types in high contempt, both for the disrespect they showed the subjects of their investigations, and for the way their work merely reinforced the structures that produced the evils they claimed to fight. The Neil Cicada incident was too good an opportunity to pass up. He interviewed Bobby Wardwood. He attended the funeral and spoke to members of the family. He even shouted a few questions at Amozan’s owner as the great man himself descended the steps of the appeals court. From his varied researches, Lead cobbled together an exposé which he sold to an important publishing house. As a term of sale, Lead relinquished responsibility for marketing to his publisher which used Amozan as one of its principal sales tools. A week after publication, an Amozan driver in Tallahassee struck and killed Miguel Gomez, a pedestrian on his way to an appointment with his medium (Tarot Cards). Shortly after the “accident”, the Tallahassee Democrat learned that the driver of the delivery van had been rushing to drop off a copy of Danny Lead’s new exposé on a 24 hour delivery guarantee…
Recursion #3
The first time Mrs. Dalrymple threw Fenton’s car into reverse, she nearly backed it into a utility pole. Since then, things hadn’t got much better. Right out of the testing lot, she forgot to check her blind spot and nearly ran Fenton under a transport trailer. During a parallel parking exercise, she got herself so tightly wedged between two parked cars that she couldn’t get out again. Fenton had to go into the neighbouring restaurant and call out to the patrons, asking if the owner of a white Honda Civic would please back his car up just a little. The experience left Fenton both embarrassed and angry. As they were returning to the Ministry of Transportation parking lot, an ambulance zoomed up behind the car, lights flashing and sirens blaring. Instead of moving to the curb, Mrs. Dalrymple opened the sunroof and raised her middle finger.
At the end of the test, Fenton felt conflicted. Going strictly by the book, he should fail Mrs. Dalrymple. But if he failed her, she’d only come back and take the test again. It was a matter of professional courtesy; he didn’t want to inflict her on his colleagues. His motives weren’t entirely altruistic; he didn’t want to inflict her on himself either. So Fenton fudged a passing grade and handed Mrs. Dalrymple her certificate. She could take it to the counter at the Ministry and exchange her learner’s permit for a full-fledged driver’s license.
Mrs. Dalrymple was so delighted she kissed Fenton on the cheek.
— Oh thank you. Oh thank you. Now I can take my dear friend to her medical appointments.
— What’s wrong with your friend?
— She was crossing the road when a car hit her.
— I’m sorry.
— No don’t be. I blame the Ministry. There’s no way they should have issued a license to the driver. Such an incompetent boob! He drove a van for Amozan, you know.