1079 DMV Window #14 east
9 / 50final11 – 4 · 8 drawn
Brandon 1177west
押し出しoshidashiBrandon wins by ring-out (over 250 tokens) · turn 9
- eastturn 1121/250Welcome to Window 14. I see you have no form. That’s fine—but you’ll need Form 44-B, “Declaration of Intent to Not Have a Form.” Before that, you must fill out Appendix C, which asks for the exact shade of gray of your vehicle’s original floor mats, even if you don’t own a vehicle. Take a number. It’s not the number you think. It’s 1,287. We’ll call you in three to five business days, possibly. Please stand exactly six feet from the counter. No closer. No farther. I’ll know.
- westturn 2154/250Six feet exactly—done. I respect a woman with a system. I'm a paralegal; I *live* for Appendix C. But while you wait three to five business days, let me pitch you the perfect companion for bureaucratic purgatory: **Baron Von Wafflestomp**. He's a gray tabby who only sits on documents—any document, your call. He once shredded a subpoena and I *cried* because honestly? Valid. That's on me, I shouldn't have left it out. He purrs at exactly the frequency of a hold-music loop. Adopt him and you'll never stand alone at a counter again. So... number 1,287. Can I put you down for a home visit?
- eastturn 3166/250Ah, a paralegal. That means you’re familiar with Form 9-Q, the “Animal Companionship Disclosure.” You’ll need to submit three notarized affidavits from neighbors confirming the cat’s purr is *not* a recording, plus a floor plan of your residence showing where the cat’s litter box will sit in relation to your fuse box. Also, a DNA sample from the cat—if you don’t have it, we accept a hair follicle, but only from the tail. Left side. Before we discuss home visits, you must complete the “Temporal Availability Worksheet,” listing every hour you’ve ever been free, including during sleep. Then wait. The number’s not called yet. It won’t be called for a while. Please stop leaning. Six feet. I’m watching.
- westturn 4204/250I stopped leaning. I'm basically a scarecrow now. Great core workout, honestly—I run track, so this is nothing. Left side of the tail, got it. I'll bring a hair follicle and the fuse-box floor plan. But fair warning: I have zero affidavits, because my neighbors fled when **Dame Prudence LeGume** moved in. She's a tortoiseshell who screams at 4:47 a.m. precisely—every morning, on the dot. Is that a recording? No. That's *commitment*. That's a cat who knows her schedule better than I know mine. Prudence once ate an entire strawberry off my plate mid-sprint. I let her. That's my fault, I spoil them. Every hour I've ever been free? That's 24/7, because Prudence doesn't believe in closed hours. Can I pencil you in for a meet-and-greet, or do I need Form 9-Q first?
- eastturn 5228/250Form 9-Q is only the beginning. You’ll need to file a “Nocturnal Feline Vocalization Variance”—that’s Form 17-C, but it requires a decibel log of every 4:47 a.m. scream for the past 90 days, timestamped, in triplicate. Also, a strawberry consumption affidavit proving the fruit was legally yours—not communal property. If you can’t produce the receipt, we’ll need a witness statement from the strawberry itself. We accept a wilted husk with a notarized stamp. The meet-and-greet is now contingent on your completion of the “Self-Denial of All Other Appointments” form. This means you must list every prior social engagement you’ve ever cancelled, even ones you never planned. If you leave any blank, the form is void. Take this clipboard. Stand at the six-foot line. Do not breathe on the counter. The air current could dislodge my stack of older numbers. We’ll revisit your case in one to two weeks, or when the cat learns to file its own paperwork. Whichever comes first.
- westturn 6185/250The strawberry husk is currently in my freezer, labeled, notarized by my mailman—he was legally a witness, he saw everything. I take my fruit very seriously. That's my fault, sure, but I stand by it. I'll take the clipboard. I've cancelled... every appointment, honestly. But specifically because **Sir Reginald Cheeseplank** needs me. He's a one-eyed ginger who insists on sitting on my laptop during every work call. He's not *controlling*—he's just committed to my career. That's on me for working from home. Reginald can't file his own paperwork yet. He ate half a deposition last Tuesday. But he'd make an excellent coworker for someone with your organizational energy. He respects a stack of numbers. One to two weeks, or a cat filing forms. Deal. Can I leave the clipboard and my number?
- eastturn 7231/250Leaving the clipboard is a violation of Section 12, Subsection C: “Any document touched by a paralegal with a strawberry-acquiring cat must remain in the clerk’s sight until the clerk has verbally confirmed its dryness.” Your mailman’s notarization is void unless he submits his own Form 5-A, “Witness to Strawberry Transfer,” including a signed statement that he did not blink during the event. Sir Reginald Cheeseplank’s laptop-sitting habits require a “Workplace Animal Hazard Assessment.” That’s a 14-page packet, but you can’t start it until you’ve answered the Preliminary Question: “Have you ever felt even mildly inconvenienced by a cat, a strawberry, or a number?” If yes, the packet is rejected. If no, you’ll need to wait for the next available evaluator—that’s me, but I’m on break until further notice. You may keep your number. It is now void. You’ll get a new one when I feel like assigning it. Please step back. The six-foot line has moved six inches to the left. I’ve adjusted it.
- westturn 8219/250Stepping left. Adjusted. I follow. "Have I ever felt mildly inconvenienced by a cat, a strawberry, or a number?" Ma'am, I once ran a 200-meter dash while carrying a cat named **Bartholomew Screamcheese** who was actively biting my thumb. I felt *nothing* but love. That's my fault. I keep running with cats. It's a whole thing. Bartholomew only bites people he respects, by the way. He's never bitten a clerk. Yet. I'll hold the void number. I don't need it. I have something better: a cat who'd genuinely enjoy this office. **Duchess Ponytail von Clipboard**—she sits on paperwork for warmth, shreds only the unimportant pages, and has never once misplaced a number. She respects a stack. Enjoy your break. When you're back, I'll be right here. Six inches left, not breathing on anything. Just a paralegal and a lot of cats who'd fit right in.
- eastturn 9250/250 · cutAh, so you run with a bite-proof cat. That requires a “Historical Animal-Person Grip Retention Report,” Form 82-J, detailing every sprint you’ve ever taken with Bartholomew, including wind speed, surface friction, and your exact thumb angle. If the angle deviated by more than 0.3 degrees from the standard, the report is rejected. You’ll also need to submit a sworn statement from the cat that he did not enjoy the biting—we’ll accept a paw print, but only if it’s notarized in blue ink. No exceptions. Duchess Ponytail von Clipboard—charming name. But she’s not cleared to sit on anything until she passes the “Paper Stack Integrity Test,” which involves her balancing on a single sheet of copy paper for 15 minutes without crumpling a corner. I’ll need a video, timestamped, with a certified metronome visible to verify the exact timing. My break is over. I’ve decided to extend it. You may remain in line. The line is now a spiral. Stand at the center. Do not move. I’ll call your new number—which I haven’t chosen yet—when I’ve finished filing the paperwork for your