He spotted his colleague hammering away at an early-morning report. "Morning, Rob," he called.
"Hey, Joe," replied Rob, easing back into his chair and greeting his colleague. "Had a good weekend?"
"Can't complain," said Joe, grinning. Sitting down, he set down his mug of coffee onto the desk and glanced around conspiratorially before saying in a low voice, "I won the lottery."
"YOU'RE KIDDING!" Rob exclaimed, while Joe shushed him and glanced around again. "It's nothing, no big deal; it wasn't like the first prize or anything, just one of those smaller draws. But I'm now ten thousand dollars richer!" he hissed excitedly.
"Congratulations, then!" said Rob, shaking his friend by the hand rather vigourously. "Lady Luck must really be smiling down on you!"
"Yeah, I couldn't believe it either," Joe remarked. "Like, what are the chances...?"
There was a split second in which the two men stared at each other, instinctively realizing that they had just done something incredibly stupid.
"Oh my god, did I actually say --"
"You did! Bloody hell, you did! They'll be coming for you, Joe, they'll --"
"I know what they'll do! Just - quick! Get me some paper! We need to solve it before they get here --"
"Oh my god, they're going to get us, they're going to get us --"
"Stop blubbering and help me, dammit! There are 49 numbers to choose from, right? But you only pick six --"
"Do you have a calculator? You need to do combinations, unless you can somehow calculate factorials in your head --"
Just then, the lights cut out and the men were thrown into darkness.
"Oh god, they're here..."
There was a deafening crash as a number of men in dark uniforms and heavy firearms burst in through the window. Fragments of glass showered across the two men now cowering under the desk. Then the door burst open, and more men in uniforms charged in, weapons and voices raised, yelling, "Freeze! Thought Police!" and "Get down! You two, get down!"
One of the men in uniforms threw himself upon Joe and held him down on the ground with his knees. Arms pinned behind his back, the office worker could do nothing but whimper, "I don't know the answer, I just - I wasn't even thinking about it, and it slipped out - it's an figure of speech, dammit! It's something to do with combinations and --"
"Silence!" shouted the man on top of him, and Joe's protestations fell mute. A light flickered on from somewhere, and the room was thrown into a pale florescent glow. Joe spotted three chevrons on the officer's sleeve, above the infamous logo of the dog-eared document with the golden "A+" superimposed on it. It didn't make him feel any better, especially since a dozen gunbarrels were now aimed his direction, laser sights dotting his face and clothes.
"You have the right to be warned that any unauthorized material found in your possession will be taken to mean that they are intended for dishonest use," recited the sergeant, nuzzling the muzzle of his handgun against the back of Joe's head. Joe whimpered.
"Name?" barked the sergeant.
"J-J-Joseph T-Taylor Smith," he stammered.
"Index number?"
"Uh, Nine - oh god - nine, four, t-two, one, s-six."
"And...?"
"Th-that's it!"
"YOU FORGOT ZERO-A!" roared the sergeant. All around him, hands gripped the holsters of their rifles more tightly.
"Z-Zero-A," Joe muttered. He cast his head around as much as possible, hoping for a glance of his colleague. Had Rob managed to escape?
"Stop fidgiting," barked the sergeant, pushing Joe's head back to the floor roughly. "You have a minute to answer this question, and you cannot go to the toilet in the first thirty seconds and the last fifteen seconds of your alloted time."
"Wh-what?"
"For two marks: What is the gravitational field strength experiened by a fifty-kilogramme satellite in geosynchronous orbit around the equator, assuming its centripetal acceleration is nine-point-five-three metres per second squared?"
"I- I don't know!" Joe sobbed. "I did those kind of problems so long ago, and it's not like I need them in my everyday life... I can't remember!" he wailed. "Don't shoot me, please!"
"Time's up," said the sergeant. "You've failed." And he squeezed the trigger.
With a click and a splat, a red "F' spread across Joe's forehead, seeping into his skin like tattoo ink. With that, the men in uniforms started to withdraw. "Have a nice life, Balrog," growled the sergeant as he got up and left with his men.
-----
Woah, I managed to use the word "conspiratorially". A mix of V for Vendetta - whose speeches I have been watching - and College Humour, which combines to form quite a traumatizing picture. I guess it would look better as a video.
YOU SHALL NOT PASS!
The Edna Man
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